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MISSION  SAN  CARLOS  DEL  CARMELO. 


A  CALIFORNIA  PILGRIMAGE 


BY 

ONE  OF  THE  PILGRIMS 


AMELIA    WOODWARD    TRUESDELL, 


SECOND   EDITION 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
SAMUEL  CARSON  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 

1884 


Copyright,  1884, 

SAMUEL  CARSON  &  CO. 

SAN  FRANCISCO,  CAL. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


C.  A .  Murdoch  &  Co.,  Printers.  Bartling  &  Kimball,  Binders. 


DEDICATION. 


To  the  hallowed  memory  of  one  of  the  nation's  grandest  singers,  whose 
words  encoiiraged  this  labor  of  love,  but  whose  own  majestic  numbers  now 
know  sublimer  themes,  this  book  is  reverently  dedicated. 


INTRODUCTION. 


The  following  pages  do  not  purport  to  be  a  history  of  Missions,  but  only 
what  the  title  implies — a  visit  to  the  old  shrines.  To  local  descriptions  and 
legends  are  added  such  allusions  to  familiar  events  of  Mission  history  as  seemed 
desirable,  with  such  fragmentary  thoughts  as  would  naturally  be  suggested  to 
minds  appreciative  of  the  only  bits  of  antiquity  to  be  found  in  this  new  land. 

The  reader  will  remember  that  Junipero  Serra  was  the  first  Franciscan 
missionary  who  came  to  Alta  California.  Having  been  appointed  President 
of  the  future  Missions,  he  arrived  on  the  shore  of  San  Diego  Bay,  with  a  few 
brother  Franciscans  and  a  small  band  of  Spanish  soldiers,  in  1769.  There 
he  founded  the  first  of  those  Missions,  which,  in  turn,  became  the  foun- 
dation of  civilization  on  this  coast.  Soon  after  the  arrival  of  the  Spaniards 
in  San  Diego,  Capt.  Portola,  with  a  portion  of  the  devoted  band,  started  on 
an  overland  journey  for  Monterey.  In  their  wanderings  they  came  to  San 
Francisco  Bay,  and  claimed  it  for  Spain  and  the  saint  whose  name  it  bears. 
At  various  stations  between  the  two  bays,  Missions  were  established,  to  which 
Father  Serra  devoted  himself  with  unremitting  fervor  until  his  death  in  1784. 
The  work  was  then  carried  on  by  men  inspired  with  the  same  zeal  for  God 
and  the  King  of  Spain,  until  a  series  of  political  changes,  culminating  about 
the  year  1840,  utterly  destroyed  the  power  of  the  Missions. 


I  questioned  thus  with  the  spirit: 
"  O,  how  can  I  do  this  thing  ? 

The  pattern  is  long  and  hard"  I  said, 
"My  thought  but  a  slender  string" 

*O,  faithless  child,"  quoth  the  spirit, 
"  Begin  but  to  weave,  nor  doubt, 
While  the  other  end  of  the  skein  we  hold, 
How  can  the  thread  give  outV 


banerott  Library 

A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


monarch  of  waters  !    the  giant  Pacific! 
How  dwells  he  forever  in  kingly  estate ! 
One  mighty  hand  grasping  the  Orient  hoary, 
The  other  wide-spanning  the  Golden  Gate ! 
Rests  his  gaze  amid  scenes  which  are  grand  and  eternal, 

The  centuries'  snows  are  a  crown  for  his  head; 
Borealis,  his  torch-bearer,  lights  his  state  chambers, 
And  the  icebergs  their  flame-tinted  canopies  spread. 

To  his  warm  heart  he  presses  his  bride  with  her  graces, 

Low  responses  she  gives  through  her  forests'  deep  chimes 
To  his  wooing,  in  softest  tide-cadences  uttered, 

While  their  love-tale  the  minstrel  winds  bear  to  all  climes. 
High  lifts  she  aloft  the  gigantic  Sequoia, 

To  catch  on  her  brow  the  smile  of  his  face; 
And  the  moons  that  are  whitest  and  suns  that  are  clearest 

For  ages  have  looked  on  their  loving  embrace. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

California,  bride  of  the  princely  Pacific ! 

All  humbly  we  gaze  on  the  stores  that  are  thine; 
Not  the  gold  that  was  torn  from  thy  breast  'midst  thy  crying, 

But  a  greater  boon  ask  from  thy  treasures'  deep  mine— 
E'en  a  throb  from  thy  life  when  thy  soul  was  awaking, 

When  the  darkness  was  smitten  ere  dawned  had  the  day; 
When  the  light  of  the  cross  with  the  sabre's  flash  mingled, 

And  the  chaos  of  change  in  thy  morn  rolled  away. 


TE 


ELLS  the  cumbrous  page  historic  how  the  Missions  rose  and  fell, 
Founded  by  the  Frays  Franciscan — long  their  souls  in  heaven  dwell ! 


California's  Christian  Missions,  built  upon  an  unknown  shore, 
Dark  with  tales  of  brutish  native,  bright  with  myths  of  golden  store; 

Tells  how  at  the  call  of  Spain,  the  Mother  Church  her  paladins 
Sent  full-armed  with  holy  weapons  to  the  savage  deep  in  sins, 

The  true  faith  to  bear  in  haste  as  oil  for  wounds  of  holy  steel — 
Steel  by  Spain  held  pure  when  tempered  in  the  fire  of  pious  zeal. 

How  in  wretched  caravels  the  padres  came  from  Mejico, 

Churchly  gifts  and  treasures  bearing  o'er  the  long  waves  dipping  slow; 

How  when  'midst  the  dreary  voyage  storms  hissed  o'er  the  blackened  sea, 
Calm  their  O  Regina  mingled  with  that  fearful  minstrelsy. 

How  they  came  with  toilsome  journeys  through  the  danger-crowded  lands, 
Where  the  cacti  and  the  mesas  kinder  were  than  Indian  bands. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Grieving  not  at  isolation,  save  by  it  they  lose  the  prized 
Privilege  of  votive  taper  to  some  saint  new-canonized; 

How  when,  comrades  close,  among  them  death  and  hideous  sickness  were, 
The  Viaticum,  though  fainting,  failed  they  not  to  minister. 


as  vale  of  Andalusia  to  their  ocean-weary  eyes, 
California  spread  her  beauties  'neath  a  tent  of  cloudless  skies. 

Rich  as  Spain's  oft-chanted  vegas  lay  her  valleys  undefiled, 
And  recalled  their  own  Nevadas,  white  Sierras  far  and  wild. 

To  them  seemed  the  mountain  torrents,  rushing  down  the  canons  deep, 
As  loved  Tagus  or  as  Darro  from  Granada's  rugged  steep. 

Spread  the  mother-land  her  banner,  tarnished  but  still  held  with  pride, 
O'er  the  cross  anear  it  planted  by  the  mild  Pacific  tide. 

Like  the  clutch  of  dying  monarch  was  this  final  grasp  of  Spain; 
Though  with  mortal  home-wounds  bleeding,  reached  she  bold  hand  o'er  the 
main, 

Twisting  in  the  young  land's  fair  locks  writhing  fingers  gaunt  and  old, 
Hoping  by  th'  electric  current  her  fast-ebbing  life  to  hold. 

While  upon  Saint  Isidore,  the  patron  of  the  dear  home-land, 
Called  the  padres  to  extend  to  this  shore  his  adopting  hand. 

And  they  christened  the  young  giant  in  the  true  canonic  way; 
Saintly  names  their  faith  had  given,  children  spell  in  school  to-day. 


io  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Oft  they  met  the  cruel  famine,  and  the  hand  of  bloody  deed, 

Till  the  sprinkled  blood  of  martyrs  proved  the  Church's  fertile  seed. 

But  with  miracles  and  wonders  their  discouragement  was  stayed, 
When  to  turn  them  from  their  purpose  Satan  all  his  might  essayed. 

Soon  their  bells  from  tree  tops  swinging  rung  out  Glorias  to  the  hills, 
And  their  chanted  Misereres  hushed  the  laughter  of  the  rills. 

And  at  length  from  cliff  and  canon  all  the  "  little  devils  "  fled, 
Exorcised  by  Corpus  Christi,  forth  in  grand  processions  led. 

All  God's  world  rejoiced  to  help  them;  young  trees  lent  lithe  saplings  strong, 
Patient  cattle  died  to  give  them  supple  skins  for  binding  thong; 

Mother  Earth  gave  mud  adobe,  and  the  sun  his  furnace  heat; 
Rolled  the  mountains  their  smooth  bowlders;  cold  springs  gushed  for  weary 
feet. 

And  they  built  aspiring  turrets  and  arched  corridors  designed, 
In  a  humble  imitation  of  grand  forms  their  mem'ries  shrined. 

Well  their  vines  and  olives  flourished,  and  young  herds  flecked  many  hills, 
Nature  lavished  on  their  efforts  wealth  from  all  her  treasure-tills. 

So  the  Missions  strong  and  comely  grew  despite  ungodly  strife, 

While  the  startled  echoes  wondered  what  should  mean  this  unknown  life; 

And  the  valleys  met  each  other  with  their  leagues  of  harvest  lands, 

Till  the  broad  and  good  dimensions  linked  the  shore  with  priestly  hands. 

San  Diego's  level  mesas  on  soft  air  the  word  sent  out; 

San  Antonio,  from  the  mountains,  passed  "Good  cheer"  with  joyous  shout; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Francis'  Bay,  on  pulsing  currents,  told  the  tale  from  wave  to  wave; 
Fair  Sonoma's  waiting  hillsides  backward  cry  of  "  Welcome  "  gave. 

But  the  guile  of  their  own  sons  and  Mejico's  bold  hand  of  greed 
Drove  their  flocks  on  devious  hillsides;  sold  their  lands  for  public  need. 

Poets  sing  and  Christians  sorrow  o'er  the  wreck  of  good  works  done.; 
God  looks  on  in  awful  silence,  beams  as  bright  His  glorious  sun. 


T^O  the  land  of  ruined  churches  fondly  came  a  Pilgrim  band, 
*       Grieving  at  the  cruel  blows  by  Time's  iconoclastic  hand; 

Sorrowing  for  strifes  of  nations,  and  the  feuds  which  end  in  guilt; 
The  insatiate  lust  for  power  that  grasps  what  brother-hands  have  built; 

Grieving  for  the  sneer  of  scoffers,  who  pile  scorn  because  appears, 
Marred  with  trace  of  human  frailty,  toil  of  consecrated  years; 

Wond'ring  at  God's  hidden  purpose,  at  His  patience  sufFring  long — 
That  great  patience  which  for  ages  views  the  strife  'twixt  right  and  wrong. 

Came  the  Pilgrims  to  the  Missions,  shod  with  zeal,  faith's  staff  in  hand, 
Where  they  found  them  dead  or  dying,  up  and  down  the  pleasant  land; 

Saw  them  bathed  in  morning  sunlight — so  false  hope  floods  dying  face — 
And  when  noonday  hazes  round  them  burnt  with  a  mirage-like  grace; 

On  these  ruins'  haggard  brows  when  twilight  laid  a  plume'd  crest, 

Wooed  they  forth  the  Mission  spirits  with  love's  wand,  aye  heaven  blessed; 


12  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

For  the  souls  of  the  departed  seemed  to  haunt  each  hallowed  shade, 
As  they  were  permitted  guardians,  at  the  shrines  themselves  had  made. 

As  come  hunted  exiles  shrinking,  when  the  voice  of  Day  is  dumb, 

From  their  haunts,  where  death-shades  shudder,  would  the  Mission-spirits  come : 

And  they  sat  beside  the  Pilgrims,  told  their  tale  of  joy  and  woe; 
Of  the  Missions'  cruel  tortures,  and  their  splendors  long  ago; 

Of  their  swarthy  children  caught  in  grasp  of  a  Briarian  fate; 
Of  their  final  desolation  and  their  present  cruel  state. 

And  the  Pilgrims'  hearts  were  smitten  by  such  grief  with  pity  sore, 
Till  they  longed  to  tell  the  story  to  all  people  o'er  and  o'er. 

On  the  mountain  side  south-sloping,  and  the  mesas'  lifted  plains, 
Thus  they  saw  the  pictured  story,  that  which  yet  from  death  remains. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN   DIEGO. 


TN  the  College  San  Fernando,  in  the  State  of  Mejico, 

*     Hangs  a  canvas  dim  with  shadows  thrown  a  century  ago; 

From  it  looks  a  monk  Franciscan,  in  his  order's  robe  complete, 
Cowle'd  serge  and  hempen  girdle  falling  to  his  sandaled  feet ; 

With  a  rev'rent  majesty  he  lifts  on  high  the  Crucifix, 

Which  tells  Calvary's  sad  bequeathal  to  the  chalice  and  the  pyx; 

On  his  face  that  confidence  in  holy  work  he  had  to  do, 

Born  alone  of  such  grand  faith  as  knows  its  creed  the  "only  true;" 

Scintillant  'neath  glowing  faith,  burns  zeal  as  deathless  and  as  bright 
As  the  fire  on  Aztec  temples  through  a  fervid  tropic  night; 

In  his  hand  he  holds  a  stone  with  which  to  beat  his  naked  breast; 
Near  him  lie  a  skull  and  scourge,  and  stands  the  chalice  ever  blessed . 

Throngs  his  feet  a  motley  crowd  from  many  swarthy  peoples  led; 
Tell  their  faces  every  terror;  crouch  they  in  all  shapes  of  dread. 

Such  was  Padre  Serra  preaching,  as  they  say  who  knew  him  well, 
Fray  Junipero  whose  labors  now  but  ruined  altars  tell; 

He  the  man  who  consummation  found  unto  his  life's  desire, 
When  in  wilds  of  California,  he  might  snatch  poor  souls  from  fire. 


/4  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Whose  rare  ardor  never  failed,  though  tried  by  woes  of  land  and  sea; 
To  the  glory  of  his  purpose  his  great  soul  was  ever  free; 

With  his  band  he  wandered  long  through  Lower  California's  shore, 
Where  Tierra  and  confreres  had  planted  good  seed  long  before; 

Where  Ugarte,  aye  the  bravest  of  a  brotherhood  most  brave, 

Built  his  "Triumph  of  the  Cross/'  the  first  ship  launched  on  western  wave. 

Serra,  undismayed  by  mountains  and  the  forest's  unknown  woe, 
Onward  went  toward  Colorado  and  the  Gila's  turgid  flow; 

Where  De  Vaca  and  Castillo,  wand'ring  to  Pacific  shore, 

Healed  the  sick  by  sacred  symbols  full  three  hundred  years  before, 

O'er  the  land  where  Coronado  and  De  Nic.a  sought  in  vain 
For  the  seven-storied  city — the  Quivira  of  the  plain — 

Where  two  "Brothers  of  the  Cross"  had,  near  its  fabled  walls,  laid  down, 
At  the  hand  of  trait'rous  native,  Calvary's  sign  for  Zion's  crown; 

Places  where  the  blood  of  martyrs  should  again  bedew  the  land 
By  the  blindness  of  the  rulers  and  the  Indian's  red  right  hand; 

Where  the  marigolds  upspringing  o'er  the  hasty  graves  should  tell, 
By  a  miracle  of  verdure,  where  the  faithful  friars  fell; 

Where  procession  of  the  murdered  should  pace  o'er  the  blood-stained  sand, 
Each  one  bearing  through  night's  darkness  torch  flamboyant  in  his  hand, 

While  before  them  cross  majestic,  borne  by  unseen  ones  along, 

Should  cast  such  unearthly  radiance  on  the  chanting  white-robed  throng, 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  75- 

That  they  seem  as  flaming  spirits,  purging  desecrated  ground 
With  their  versicles  and  incense,  broken  altars  round  and  round; 

Till  these  pagans,  sorely  frighted  at  the  phantom  night  by  night, 
Should  flee  hasty  leagues  to  southward  from  the  weird  avenging  sight. 

Serra  thus  all  blindly  wandered,  dreaming  not  the  stores  of  fate 
O'er  the  place  which  should  be  later  by  his  brothers  consecrate. 

Hence  out-straying  from  his  course  to  borders  of  the  desert-land, 
Where  the  cacti  and  mesquit  yet  mingle  with  the  drifting  sand; 

Where  shrink  from  the  dry  lakes  sand-choked,  e'en  the  bitter  streams  away, 
And  dead  craters,  with  their  burnt  lips,  lap  the  red  sun's  blasting  ray; 

Still  they  toiled  the  hot  earth  o'er,  where  sea-shells  gleamed  on  waves  of  sand; 
Swept  o'er  them  the  dread  sirocco  'neath  the  fierce  light  of  that  land. 

Lit  the  beautiful  mirage  strange  mountains  in  their  fevered  sight; 
Rose  such  walls  as  once  on  Patmos  lay  against  supernal  light; 

Sprung  tall  minarets  from  temples  tipped  with  balls  of  golden  glow, 
Casting  spires  of  waving  shadow  on  the  bird-flecked  lakes  below. 

"  Feel  we,  sons,  a  woe  to  flee,"  quoth  Serra,  piously  and  well, 
"  Such  the  gleam  of  distant  heaven  to  the  souls  shut  up  in  hell." 

Crossed  themselves  the  soldiers  dumbly,  and  though  hearts  were  home-sick  sore, 
Pressed  they  on  as  sires  and  brothers  had  with  vain  hopes  years  before, 

O'er  the  plains  and  rocky  mesas  where  gray  smoke-wreaths  in  the  sky 
Told  of  Indians  stealthy  lurking  'neath  the  cactus  thickets  high; 


16  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Up  and  down  the  land  where  Kino  watched  these  lights  with  bated  breath. 
Land  of  silver,  gold,  and  famine — land  of  mystery  and  death ! 

But  the  Blessed  Mother  watched  and  when  closed  deserts  like  a  sea, 
Rose  'midst  sand  and  sage  a  portal  graced  by  lovely  family. 

Matron  fair  as  dream  of  morning,  master  grave  but  gracious  still, 
While  a  radiant  boy  to  serve  them  hastened  with  a  loving  will. 

There  they  supped,  with  loosened  sandal,  resting  through  the  welcome  night, 
And  thence  passing,  left  a  blessing  fraught  with  peace  as  morn  with  light, 

Beauteous  boy,  on  them  departing,  looked  with  brow  of  splendor  rare, 
"Thus  my  father  says  the  way  lies" — pointing  through  the  desert  air. 

When  in  pious  speech  they  marveled  how  their  hearts  within  them  burned, 
And  constrained  by  love  unresting,  ling'ring  glance  they  backward  turned, 

Lo !  amaze !  through  sage  unbroken,  drifting  sand-tides  eddied  slow ; 
Gone  the  friendly  roof  and  portal  with  the  morning's  seething  glow. 

Knew  they  then  that  He  had  served  them,  who  once  washed  His  brethren's 

feet; 
Leaning  on  his  staff  then  Serra  worshiped  in  a  rapture  meet. 

Toiled  they  on  through  Arizuma,  land  all  wondrous  winter  fair; 

But  the  spring-time's  life  had  withered  and  the  summer  death  was  there. 

E'en  the  horned  toads  had  burrowed  from  the  cruel  sun  away, 
And  th'  alluring  cliffs  receded  with  their  strip  of  shadow  gray. 

Onward,  though  the  red  simoon  still  sullen  o'er  the  white  dunes  roll ; 
Spake  the  soldiers,  "God  in  heaven!  hath  this  hideous  place  a  soul !" 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  17 

Then  quoth  Serra,  "Lo!  the  answer,"  pointing  where  their  eager  eyes, 
Saw  from  whorl  of  spike'd  cactus,  tall  white  tree  of  blossoms  rise. 

Shaft,  as  marble  of  Carrara — graved  as  with  a  sculptor's  care; 
Carven  tower  of  polished  petals,  graced  with  stamens  waxen  fair. 

Spake  he,  "Children,  let  your  lives  be  e'en  thus  rich  in  holy  deeds, 
Blooming  in  the  fiery  desert  which  would  stifle  common  weeds. 

"Aye!  believe  no  heart  so  sin-burnt  but  Faith's  seedlet  planted  there, 

Shall  bring  forth  in  Love's  warm  sunshine,  Hope's  white  blossoms  late  but  rare." 

Thus  encouraged,  toiled  they  onward,  till  from  height  of  sea-girt  shore, 
Saw  they  tall  masts  upward  pointing,  telling  their  long  journey  o'er; 

For  the  rude  ships  from  La  Paz,  which  sought  Viscaino's  Monterey, 
Lay  with  sailors  sick  or  dead  in  San  Diego's  close-locked  bay. 

Double-barre'd  gate  as  safe  from  pirate  winds  that  roam  too  free, 

As  their  stubborn  faith  from  doubts  which  lawless  rove  o'er  thought's  high  sea. 

Placid  bay!  but  bay  resplendent  when  the  broken  shells  of  spray 
Catch  the  morn  and  evening  sun-pearls  from  the  royal  hand  of  Day. 

Three  moons  Serra's  friends  had  waited  for  his  band  they  mourned  as  dead 
Roaming  o'er  the  coast  and  mesa  where  Spring's  blazonry  was  spread — 

Turquois  stars  and  stars  of  sapphire  laid  she  on  her  burnished  green, 
Fairy  brooches  fitly  matching  robes  of  every  hue  and  sheen; 

Champagne  glass  for  elves'  high  feasting — white  petunia's  graceful  cup, 
Honeysuckle's  conscious  sweetness — maid  too  bashful  to  look  up; 


1 8  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

The  ambitious  pigmy  thistles — tiny  heads  with  plume'd  hair; 
1      And  the  oxalis  white-petaled,  with  her  nun-like  grace  was  there; 

Blue-eyed,  meek  forget-me-nots  that  never  knew  a  lover's  hand; 

Wild  sunflower — as  queen  barbaric  that  would  wayside  praise  demand; 

Censers  all  unblessed  with  incense — wild  Eschscholtzias'  golden  bowls; 
Rose  they  call  Castile,  from  mem'ries  planted  deep  in  home-sick  souls; 

Thus  in  dainty  heraldry,  her  legend  in  devices  rare, 

Bossed  the  mesa,  Nature's  'scutcheon,  crusting  it  with  flow'r-gems  fair. 

Sick  and  dying,  from  their- vessels  came  the  Spaniards  to  such  land, 
But  ere  Serra  saw  it,  ravished — shorn  by  Summer's  scorching  hand. 

But  naught  quenched  his  deathless  ardor,  pealed  his  bells  from  scrubby  tree, 
Glad  as  if  from  storied  turret,  told  they  Christmas  jubilee. 

E'en  when  Famine  stole  among  them,  touching  ev'ry  haggard  face, 
And  with  Mutiny — the  rebel — closed  the  hand  in  fierce  embrace, 

Never  thought  he  of  desertion,  praying  on  with  greater  zeal, 
Doubting  not  the  end  as  certain — from  God's  word  was  no  appeal. 

When  at  length  th'  impatient  soldiers,  with  their  suff 'rings  reckless  grown, 
And  despairing  of  th'  "Antonio,"  storm-bound  long  in  seas  unknown, 

Goaded  fierce  with  cruel  hunger,  measure  set  for  their  delay, 
Saying,  "  Leave  we  on  Saint  Joseph's,  if  she  come  not  ere  that  day," 

All  night  at  the  altar  lay  he,  till  th'  appointed  dawn,  when,  lo  I 
Saw  they  by  vouchsafed  vision  in  the  clouds  a  good  ship  go. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  ig 

Still  prayed  on  th'  undoubting  Serra;  when  the  fourth  day  nigh  was  done, 
O'er  the  tide  a  ship  bread-laden  sailed  athwart  the  setting  sun. 

All  his  life  the  grateful  father,  for  deliv'rance  of  that  day, 
Celebrated  mass  memorial  on  the  feast  of  San  Jose. 

And  some  tell  that  still  is  seen  in  San  Diego's  sunny  sky, 

On  this  day,  through  phantom  clouds,  a  phantom  ship  go  sailing  by. 

With  that  all-inspiring  courage  which  urged  laggards  to  their  part, 
Here  began  this  man  the  labors  so  long  cherished  in  his  heart: 

And  they  named  the  first  young  Mission  for  one  humblest  of  the  saints, 
Eremite  at  tender  age,  when  life  her  richest  colprs  paints; 

Didacus,  the  Andalusian,  who  came  from  his  hermit  cave 
To  serve  Alcala's  sick  beggars,  eager  life's  worst  ills  to  brave; 

Who  before  the  holy  emblems  fell  in  rapturous  worship  prone, 
And  whose  form  from  earth  uplift  was  borne  by  carriers  unknown. 

At  the  hour  of  his  approach  to  hither-lying  border  land, 
Roughest  rope  around  his  throat  and  holy  cross  within  his  hand, 

And  upon  the  crucifix  his  eyes  that  drooped  'neath  gaze  of  Death, 
"Dulce  lignum,  dukes  davos"  spake  he  with  his  latest  breath. 

Testified  again  the  Spirit — e'en  a  dying  prince  was  healed, 

When  within  the  royal  chamber  at  his  shrine  the  good  priests  kneeled. 

But  ere  half-score  years  had  passed  e'en  this  saint's  prayers  had  failed  to  stay 
Satan's  wrath  and  Indian  hatred  from  a  fierce  and  bloody  fray; 


20  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

For  against  the  few  thatched  hovels  came  a  thousand  coward-bold, 
Fought  the  Spaniards  as  their  fathers  in  the  holy  wars  of  old; 

And  'gainst  torch,  and  spear,  and  arrow,  consecrated  carbine  poured, 
More  inglorious  than  when  flashed  'gainst  scimiter  the  cross-hilt  sword. 

This  the  time  when  sat  Vincente  on  the  powder  magazine, 
Francis'  robe  the  only  shelter  it  and  lighted  torch  between; 

But  that  good  saint  ever  watching,  mindful  of  his  order's  fame, 
Held  from  it  the  flames  accursed,  that  no  spark  anear  it  came. 

Then  rose  Serra's  master  spirit,  "  'Tis  the  Devil's  final  test; 

Thank  God,  holy  blood  of  martyrs  proves  the  Missions  heaven-blessed. 

"  By  the  soul  of  Brother  Luis,  sent  hence  without  unction  pure, 
By  his  'consecrated  hands,'  all  that  remained  for  sepulture, 

"  Build  we  more  and  build  we  higher,  that  the  arch-fiend  thus  perceive, 
Not  his  wrath  can  stay  the  blessings  which  the  True  Church  shall  receive." 

Then  was  reared  the  once  fair  structure,  which  to-day  a  ruined  pile, 
Stolid  sits  upon  the  hillside,  frowning  at  the  valley's  smile. 

Frowning  e'en  upon  the  river,  where  the  hill  its  current  hems, 
Shining  thread  of  curling  tinsel  twisted  round  the  olive  stems ; 

Olives  weird  and  ever  moon-lit  flecking  all  the  plain  with  light, 
Till  the  groining  of  their  shadows  mocks  the  artist's  cunning  rite. 

Armed  cacti,  as  defending,  by  the  garden  wall  now  stand; 
But  the  gentle  palms,  desponding,  scarcely  lift  protesting  hand. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Wide  potrero,  cattle-dotted,  tells  the  Mission's  ruined  stage, 

Where  the  padres  strolled  in  converse  through  the  mesa's  fragrant  sage; 

Mesa  fairest  when  spreads  Twilight  softest  banners  bright  or  gray — 
Loitering  mild-eyed  avant-courier  of  the  Night  that  spurns  delay. 

Gone  all  sign  of  churchly  usage — gone  the  trace  of  padres'  care; 
Bells  nor  cross  proclaim  the  story  that  His  worship  e'er  was  there. 

Through  the  consecrated  doorway,  covered  passes  Vandal  head; 
In  the  vestibule  adjoining,  cattle  make  their  nightly  bed. 

Not  a  saint  nor  altar  standing;  not  a  mural  legend  dear; 

In  the  windows'  deep  embrasure  dismal  owls  hold  orgies  drear. 

Mass  of  sun-burnt  bricks  adobe,  half  embanked  in  red  decay; 
Walls  and  roof  proclaim  the  old  curse — dust  to  dust  and  clay  to  clay. 

Parent  Mission,  well  belove'd !  built  in  faith,  baptised  in  tears ! 
Man  sees  only  Time's  fruition — God  looks  farther  than  the  years! 


T    ONG  the  Pilgrims  held  sad  converse,  while  night  deepened  round  the  shrine, 
*-'     Till  seemed  lurking,  guardian  spirits  in  each  dim  and  broken  line. 

Told  they  all  the  myths  and  legends  each  had  heard  from  varied  speech, 
Twining  old  and  new  together  that  their  truths  the  heart  might  reach. 

What  is  this  the  rude  foot  presses!  clinging  leaf  with  vivid  green; 
Dew  undrunk  by  thirsty  sunlight  flecks  thy  surface,  sparkling  sheen. 

"Live-for-ever,"  children  call  thee!  let  the  name  for  aye  remain! 
With  the  glinting  dews  upon  thee,  cover  ev'ry  blackened  stain. 

Grow  ye  lichens;  grow  ye  mosses;  cover  marks  of  human  strife; 
Hope  as  dew  on  mould  may  glisten  and  from  Death  there  cometh  Life. 


22  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN   LUIS  REY   DE  FRANCIA. 

the  "Santa  Margarita"  and  "Las  Flores"  ranches  lie, 
Asking  for  their  rival  charms  a  smile  from  the  admiring  sky; 

Bright  their  fields  when  with  "The  Flowers"  spring-time  dots    their  broad 

leagues  o'er, 
From  the  tip  of  rugged  mountain  to  the  edge  of  cliff-bound  shore. 

Here  the  grand  old  Don  Juan  Foster  many  years  held  princely  sway; 
Hence  e'en  to  the  Capistrano  found  his  thousand  herds  their  way. 

Long  dispensed  he  simple  justice  to  a  native  peasantry, 
Offering  to  friends  and  strangers  patriarchal  courtesy; 

Oft  the  fierce  rodeo  saw  he  raise  the  dust-cloud  on  his  plain; 
Ne'er  shall  ring  the  mountains'  echo  with  his  bullocks'  wrath  again; 

Flash  no  more  the  bright  serdpes  of  vaqueros  on  the  hill, 

And  the  wild  bands'  lessened  numbers  dumbly  own  the  master  will. 

By  the  country  folk  beloved,  long  revered  will  be  his  day; 
For  his  soul  still  say  they  masses  in  the  church  San  Luis  Rey. 

But  before  him,  claimed  the  padres  all  the  fair  lands  far  and  near; 
Long  their  good  herds  fattened  yearly  on  the  sweet  alfileria. 

Wide  these  Margarita  Mountains  open  canons  wild  and  deep, 
Leading  to  San  Luis  Valley,  then  to  eastward  boldly  sweep; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  23 

Low  they  crouch  that  o'er  their  shoulders  Santa  Rosa's  head  may  rise, 
Reaching  for  one  dream-like  vision  of  the  sea-reflected  skies; 

Circling  arms  they  interlace,  till  to  San  Luis'  hills  they  reach; 

These  to  westward,  boldly  stretching,  hide  the  gleam  of  shell-bright  beach. 

Down  the  canon  runs  the  river — Luis  called  for  kingly  saint — 
Winter  current  bold  and  rapid,  summer  stream  with  languor  faint; 

Ere  its  bent  course  meets  the  ocean,  to  a  vale  the  hills  expand — 
Lonely  mountain-circled  valley,  once  the  padres'  pleasant  land. 

Here  they  built  a  stately  structure  on  a  southward  sloping  hill— 
Castle  with  its  guns  commanding  all  the  valley,  wide  and  still; 

Once  "most  splendid  of  the  Missions,"  as  the  chronicle  relates; 
Now  Destruction  keeps  each  portal — Death  e'en  at  the  altar  waits. 

Here  the  noble  Father  Peyri,  man  of  learning  and  of  might, 
Nearly  two  score  years  accomplished,  loved  by  ev'ry  neophyte; 

Long  swam  converts  by  the  ship  which  took  from  them  his  helping  hand, 
Pleading  for  his  benediction  and  to  go  to  his  far  land ; 

Man  whose  rare  and  varied  powers  Master's  humblest  service  did; 
But  his  heart  with  sorrow  stricken,  in  his  order's  house  he  hid; 

For  his  good  work  fell  about  him,  by  the  hand  of  power  smit; 
But  the  angels  keep  the  record  where  such  labors  all  are  writ. 

Chose  they  for  this  Mission's  patron,  him  of  the  benignant  sway; 

In  the  fair  land  which  so  loved  him,  "Good  Saint  Louis,"  still  they  say. 


24  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Once  "most  splendid  of  the  Missions,"  and  to-day  its  roods  appear 
In  their  utter  desolation,  than  the  Sodom  plains  more  drear. 

'Neath  the  roof  of  flaming  frescoes  to  the  wall  a  pulpit  clings 
And  a  canopy  above  it,  like  a  bat  with  outspread  wings. 

In  a  chancel  grandly  lighted  by  a  stately  lifted  dome, 

Three  great  altars'  tarnished  splendor  tells  e'en  yet  the  hand  of  Rome. 

Here  the  soldiers  made  their  barracks  in  the  sanctuary's  place; 
Still  the  sacrilegious  lines  of  target-marks  the  shrines  deface. 

When  at  games  upon  the  altar,  their  audacious  hands  presumed, 
Leapt  forth  holy  flames  indignant,,  and  their  gambling  stakes  consumed. 

Battered  saints,  like  wounded  soldiers,  watch  the  shrines  they  cannot  shield; 
Loving  hands  saved  crowne'd  patron  from  this  wreck,  like  battle-field ; 

Bore  him  to  the  friendly  mountains,  where  a  chapel  owns  his  sway; 
Where  the  neophytes'  poor  remnant  still  observes  his  festal  day. 

Not  thus  fled  the  King  Crusader,  when  in  Palestine  arrayed, 
Turbaned  Turks  before  him  trembled,  by  his  banner's  cross  dismayed. 

Now  appears  of  former  wealth  but  one  old  silver  crucifix, 
And  at  masses  burn  the  tapers  in  quaint  silver  candlesticks. 

Worship  rarely  wakes  the  echoes,  burial  service  yet  is  said, 
Marriage,  baptism  and  the  masses  for  the  rest  of  faithful  dead. 

Then  through  high  round  arches  springing  from  the  frescoed  columns  nigh, 
Weird  old  music  throbs  in  anthems  from  the  gall'ry  old  and  high ; 


A     CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  25 

Indian  voices  and  old  viols — cadences  which  haunt  the  brain- 
Drear  as  wail  of  ghosts  returned,  their  own  death-mass  to  chant  again; 

And  the  Dominus  Vobiscum  and  responses  dismal  sung, 

Meeting  o'er  the  low-bent  kneelers,  hang  like  pall  above  them  flung; 

Till  the  prayer,  the  Dies  Ires,  in  the  ferial  monotone, 

Sobs  like  backward  drifting  sigh  of  those  who  waited  Chrisf  s  last  moan. 

But  the  curling  incense  rises  with  as  subtle  grace  of  line, 

As  e'er  marked  its  spiral  circles  round  La  Sainte  Chapelle's  fair  shrine. 

Borne  upon  the  chant's  intoning,  drifts  it  through  the  doorway  wide, 
Falling  soft  as  benediction  on  the  sleepers  side  by  side. 


T    ONG  ago  man's  greed  for  treasure  undermined  the  sacristy; 

*-'     Search  as  vain  as  hope  of  heaven,  when  to  Mammon  bows  the  knee. 

Once  most  fair  the  dreary  courtyard,  where,  above  the  fountain's  play, 
Shook  its  wilderness  of  shadow,  pimientds  fern-like  spray ; 

In  the  corridors  adjoining,  paced  the  priests  at  even  tide, 
Looking  o'er  the  broken  valley  and  their  garden  reaching  wide; 

Garden  once  of  toilsome  labors,  miles  of  wall  and  arched  gateway, 
Tiled  steps  to  a  lake  descending — lake  deep-fringed  with  willow  spray 

Now  a  marsh  where  shrieking  wild  fowl  come  storm-driven  from  the  sea; 
Stalk  the  cranes  'mong  cacti  hedges — desolation's  revelry. 


26  A     CALIFORNIA     PILGRIMAGE. 

One  tall  palm  in  tropic  splendor — blessed  where  wrath  on  all  is  poured— 
Lingers  as  last  guest  departing  from  a  banquet's  ravished  board. 

Unloved  seems  this  lonely  valley,  wind-swept  from  the  ocean  near; 
Rank  weeds  claim  its  sweeping  acres;  e'en  its  homes  look  dark  and  drear. 

And  the  Pilgrims  heard  a  legend  which  o'ercast  the  sacred  place, 
As  might  doubt  of  final  mercy  dim  the  light  of  saint-like  face. 

For  'tis  said  that  godless  aliens,  on  a  midnight  storm-hid  quest, 
Tore  its  paves  for  use  unhallowed  and  its  bricks  for  walls  unblessed. 

E'en  from  out  the  tabernacle,  holy  things  in  haste  were  borne; 
Stood  accursed  the  sacrilegious — scathed  as  trees  by  lightning  torn. 

And  thereafter  when  black  storm-clouds  caught  the  stars  from  watching  eyes, 
O'er  the  garden's  fringe'd  lakelet,  noisome  vapors  would  arise,  * 

Rise  and  shape  to  human  figures,  draped  in  penitential  serge; 

On  their  knees  in  dread  procession,  wrought  they  to  the  blast's  wild  dirge. 

Semblance  bright  of  silver  vessels,  some  bore  with  atoning  hand, 
While  weird  light  from  cross  and  chalice  lit  the  dark  tile-laden  band. 

Up  the  garden's  paved  steps  toiling — gate  and  walls  no  hindrance  gave — 
Resting  not  for  rugged  hill-side,  till  through  desecrated  nave 

Passed  they,  laying  on  the  altar  what  each  thence  had  seized  before, 
While  strove  some,  with  bootless  labors,  walls  and  pavements  to  restore. 

Rang  their  shrieks  from  castigations,  self-imposed  before  the  fane, 
Through  the  dim  church  dome  and  arches,  mingling  with  the  wind's  refrain. 

And  e'en  yet  the  Indians  whisper  when  lights  gleam  through  blinding  storms, 
"  'Tis  the  spirits  doomed  to  penance — look  not  on  their  curse'd  forms." 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


PALA. 

CHAPEL  OF  SAN  Luis  REY  DE  FRANCIA. 

AIT" HERE  San  Luis  canon  reaches  northward  towards  the  river's  home, 
*  *       Six  leagues  from  San  Luis  Mission  still  find  Indians  hills  to  roam. 

High  th'  admiring  mountains  clamber  each  the  other's  shoulders  o'er, 
Gazing  at  the  green  sea  valley  from  their  cliffs  of  rocky  shore. 

Here  is  brooding  silence  broken  by  the  ground  quail's  warning  cry, 

When  he  watches  young  flock  feeding,  breast  white-ringed  and  proud  crest  high; 

Plain-robed  mother,  through  the  sages,  speeds  her  brood  with  cunning  feet, 
Then  uplifts  with  whir  pretentious  far  from  safe  leaf-hid  retreat. 

Here  the  flocks  of  black  birds  rising,  whiz  upon  the  morning  air ; 
Far  aloft  the  shy  deer  listens;  to  his  covert  bounds  the  hare; 

Still  dwell  here  the  long-haired  Indians  in  their  smoky  "  'dobes"  dark, 
Squatting  on  the  ground  beneath  their  roofs  of  juatemote  bark; 

Here  the  acorns  and  the  pine-nuts,  still  they  gather  from  the  ground, 
Pounding  them  in  smooth  stone  mortars  which  in  river  beds  are  found ; 

Here  they  weave  the  graceful  baskets  strong  with  supple  willow  shreds; 
And  their  granaries  of  young  twigs,  bind  they  with  lithe  tule  threads; 

On  their  heads  the  graceful  ollas,  poise  they  with  a  skillful  sway; 
Thin  tortillas  of  the  ground  corn,  bake  they  on  hot  stones  to-day. 


28  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Here  the  Pala — Sparkling  Water — springs  forth  with  immortal  birth, 
Down  the  canon  greedy  quicksands  drink  it  from  the  thirsty  earth; 

And  the  natives  fear  to  gather  roots  from  near  the  living  spring, 

Lest  from  genii  that  dwell  there  curse  of  drought  the  act  should  bring. 

Padres  here  built  humble  Mission,  chapel  of  San  Luis  Rey; 
Tropic  plants  and  broken  shadows,  record  of  their  work  to-day. 

Here  the  time-defying  olive  to  the  morn  its  slim  leaves  turns, 
And  in  colors  of  the  sunset,  all  its  burnished  silver  burns. 

Still  pomegranates  spread  their  blossoms,  strangled  by  the  tall  weeds  rank, 
And  the  fruited  Aztec  cacti  grow  against  th'  adobe  bank; 

Here  the  princely  aloe  raises  penciled  tree-top  'gainst  the  sky, 
Rugged  leaves,  like  faithful  subjects,  round  their  monarch  abject  lie; 

Here  was  brought  San  Luis,  patron,  from  his  altar  strife-defiled ; 
Hides  he  now  his  broken  sceptre  'neath  the  mantle  of  his  child*, 

One  dark  room  of  rough  adobe,  roof  where  broken  tiles  gap  wide^ 
Shelters  statue  of  the  monarch,  once  Francia's  pious  pride; 

Crown  as  faded  as  his  splendor  presses  curls  beloved  of  France; 
Royal  robe  about  him  gathered  hides  the  warrior's  broken  lance. 

He  who  built  so  fair  a  chapel,  that  the  sun  of  France  delays, 
Its  light  arabesques  to  brighten,  for  the  world's  admiring  gaze; 

Chapel  honored  with  the  presence  of  the  thorn-wreath  His  brow  pressed, 
And  a  "large  piece  of  the  true  cross,"  with  the  healing  virtue  blessed; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  29 

He  who  came,  a  king  uncovered,  pressing  earth  with  naked  feet, 
To  receive  the  sacred  relics  and  for  them  built  altar  meet, 

Stands  at  shrine  whose  once  blessed  presence,  bats'  uncanny  shapes  defile, 
'Neath  a  roof  whose  only  frets  are  sapling  boughs  beneath  the  tile. 

Loving  Anthony  stands  by  this  altar  of  its  treasures  bare, 
And  fair  Mary  watches  with  them  in  a  robe  of  silver  rare; 

And  the  rudest  mural  paintings  decorate  this  dismal  hall; 

Wings  of  bats  by  cross  and  chalice ;  palms  beside  the  arrows  tall ; 

Consecrated  walls  denied  with  pagan  signs  to  Church  unknown, 

As  o'er  shrine  some  hand  profane  an  unblessed  altar-cloth  had  thrown, 

One  old  tarnished  copper  censer  lies  upon  the  gaping  floor, 

And  the  few  poor  churchly  treasures  wait  within  yon  creaking  door; 

Down  this  weird  barbaric  chamber  flames  the  Virgin's  silver  dress, 
As  a  ray  of  morn  to  wand'rers  lost  in  some  dim  wilderness. 

Sometimes  now  a  godly  father  tells  a  mass  in  this  rude  hut; 
Loose  the  rite  on  savage  natures !  dry  husk  on  time-hardened  nut ! 

Still  their  wizard  incantations  tell  they  at  the  mortal  hour; 

From  the  priest  to  wild  magician,  turn  they  for  the  healing  power. 

Here  upon  San  Luis'  feast  there  gather  crowds  from  far  and  near, 
'Neath  ramadas  of  green  willows,  hold  they  wild  and  graceless  cheer; 

Indians  and  the  Mejicanos  try  the  games  their  fathers  tried, 
When  the  Spanish  caballeros  owned  the  land  in  ranches  wide ; 


So  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

In  the  ring  the  fleet  riata  brings  the  maddened  bull  to  ground, 

Cheers  his  mustang  the  vaquero — ring  with  shouts  the  mountains  round; 

From  'neath  hoofs  of  flying  ponies,  buried  chicken — hapless  game ! 
Pluck  they,  leaning  from  their  saddles;  victor  fairest  maid  may  claim. 

They,  the  pleasure-loving  children,  sons  of  idleness  and  songs ! 

From  them  slip  their  fathers'  acres;  unroused  they  by  all  their  wrongs! 

Comes  each  year  a  smaller  number;  as  the  tide  from  ebbing  shore 
Slip  their  lives  into  oblivion;  soon  the  last  shall  come  no  more. 

Undisturbed  their  sleeping  brothers,  though  fiestas  round  them  surge; 
Though  the  rusty  bells  betoken  marriage  chime  or  fun'ral  dirge. 

O'er  them  stands  a  belfry  tower,  winter-stained  and  dark  with  moss; 
On  its  crest  one  bird-brought  cactus  grows  around  the  broken  cross. 

Lonely  ruined  tower  of  Pala !  dark  with  shadows  of  the  past ! 

Like  Death's  signet  art  thou  set  on  shrines  which  must  be  his  at  last ! 

But  from  death  comes  resurrection;  fertile  fields  wait  willing  toil; 
Luscious  fruits  and  grains  life-giving  hide  within  th?  unnurtured  soil. 

Valley  of  the  sparkling  waters !  soon  thy  hidden  stores  shall  be 
By  the  fair-haired  Saxon  stranger  dedicate  to  industry. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  31 


SAN    JUAN    CAPISTRANCX 


/^NWARD  from  "Las  Flores"  rancho,  following  the  shore-line  steeps, 
V^     Ten  leagues  distant  from  San  Luis,  'midst  the  hills  a  fair  vale  sleeps; 

Here  the  Coast  Range,  northward  trending,  opens  in  a  tiny  gate, 
Where  without,  the  chafing  billows  centuries  for  entrance  wait; 

And  the  Santa  Ana  Mountains,  set  in  far  transparent  blue, 

Gaze  above  the  shrinking  foot-hills  on  the  sea  the  fair  gate  througL 

Here  is  hid  a  dainty  valley,  where  two  streamlets  trickle  down, 
And  the  mountains  warm  encircle,  bearing  thorny  cactus  crown; 

Where  th'  arroyo,  called  "  Viejo,"  finds  Trabuco's  loit'ring  stream, 
And  as  young  explorers  seek  they  ocean-world's  alluring  gleam, 

Stands  the  Mission  Capistrano  in  a  spot  which  well  beguiles 

From  th'  impassioned  sun  departing,  all  his  hoarded  farewell  smiles; 

Sun  which  flings  each  day  new  mantle,  from  his  wardrobes  in  the  west, 
Mountain  queen  in  splendor  draping,  patient  feet  and  royal  crest; 

Spot  which  mildest  moons  illumine,  where  stars  scintillating  rise 
With  soft  semi-tropic  lustre — light  unknown  to  colder  skies. 

In  this  calm  and  restful  valley  stands  a  shrine  to  one  whose  head 
Knew  no  rest,  when  as  Franciscan,  poverty  and  war  he  wed; 


3 2  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

He  who  from  the  Turks  accursed,  strove  to  tear  the  shrines  profaned 
By  the  touch  of  infidels,  and  by  the  turbaned  shadows  stained; 

Who  before  his  crucifix,  and  all  the  faithful  lances  set, 
Pushed  the  Ottoman's  proud  army  and  the  star  of  Mahomet; 

Who  great  riches,  for  the  Master,  with  devoted  life  laid  down, 
Grieving  he  was  "deemed  unworthy"  to  receive  a  martyr's  crown. 

Blend  the  olive  and  the  orange  round  his  shrine  their  shaded  green; 
Tender  bloom  of  gnarle'd  vines,  tells  boundless  wealth  that  once  was  seen. 

Dwells  a  padre  grave  and  kindly — serves  the  people's  humble  needs, 
Gathers  in  the  oval  olives,  and  the  stores  from  fertile  seeds. 

Indians  and  the  Mejicanos  cluster  round  the  brooding  place, 
Remnants  left  to  tell  the  story  of  each  dying,  stricken  race ; 

Tinkle  the  guitar  and  dice-box  through  the  idle,  dreamy  days; 
Castanets  of  the  fandango  tell  the  natives'  careless  ways. 

Here  long  dwelt  the  same  Don  Juan  who  at  San  Luis  Rey  was  chief; 
Tell  the  Californians  still  his  story  with  the  words- of  grief; 

Of  his  free  and  wide  donations — lands  to  strangers  freely  passed; 

But  'twas  naught  to  greedy  Saxons;  slipped  his  broad  leagues  sure  and  fast. 


HARD  fought  Satan  for  this  Mission;  when  foundation  first  was  laid, 
Told  its  buried  bells  and  treasures  long  the  Indians'  threatened  raid; 

When  at  length  returned  the  fathers,  after  many  anxious  days, 
Gone  the  cross  from  place  of  burial;  such  Satanus'  crafty  ways! 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  33 

Long  they  searched,  till  fell  the  darkness  deep  upon  their  hearts  and  brows; 
Prayed  they  then  and  called  the  Mother,  adding  many  fervent  vows. 

Soon  before  them  in  the  midnight,  with  the  grace  of  waving  spires, 
Burnt  a  lambent  flame  in  beauty  without  touch  of  earthly  fires; 

Drew  their  steps  its  luring  motion  through  the  gloom  by  power  unknown, 
As  a  great  love  leads  the  soul  in  peace  where  darkest  shades  are  thrown. 

Dumb  they  followed  where  it  skirted  just  above  the  honored  ground, 
Till  beneath  the  spot  which  stayed  it,  eager  hands  rejoicing  found 

Altar  marble  and  the  paten  gleaming  in  the  darkness,  bright; 
Rang  their  chanted  "Deo  Gratias"  through  the  arches  of  the  night. 

Sent  the  enemy  thus  baffled,  emissaries  of  his  own, 

And  the  struggling  young  pueblo  "robber-haunted"  long  was  known. 

Gliding  to  this  dainty  haven,  pirates  too  held  wassail  nights, 
Drunken  from  the  Mission  vintage;  fled  afar  the  neophytes. 

Sought  at  length  ambitious  padres  proud  cathedral  walls  to  raise, 
That  from  dome  of  fitting  grandeur  might  resound  Jehovah's  praise ; 

Years  of  Indians'  doubting  labor,  by  full  faith  their  souls  uncheered; 
Stone  on  stone  their  fathers  builded,  stone  on  stone  the  children  reared. 

Cruciform  the  walls  uplifted;  massive  arch  and  pillar  said, 

Vaunting,  to  the  humble  builders,  "We  shall  stand  when  ye  are  dead." 

Less  than  half-score  years  their  boasting,  when  upon  the  Mother's  feast — 
"La  Purisima  Concepcion" — while  the  celebrating  priest, 


34  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

With  the  grace  of  broidered  garments  stood  in  ritual  most  grand, 
And  aloft  the  blessed  chalice  held  in  his  anointed  hand; 

And  the  low-browed  converts  kneeling,  crowded  all  the  tiled  floor — • 

Chants  and  incense  circling  round  them,  while  their  beads  they  fumbled  o'er— 

Heaved  the  earth  like  wrathful  ocean;  trembled  e^ry  living  thing; 
Mutt'rings  'neath  and  crash  above  them,  echoed  back  from  wing  to  wing, 

Down  the  heavy  dome  to  pavement,  downward  bearing  fearful  death; 
Passed  the  smitten  ones  to  heaven,  Aves  on  their  dying  breath; 

For  the  Blessed  Mother,  grieving  at  such  fearful  holocaust, 

Freedom  from  the  woes  of  Hades,  gave  as  their  poor,  souls  out-crossed. 

Smiled  the  sun  upon  the  ruin;  spread  the  sky  as  blue  its  span; 

Who  shall  question  God's  eternal  laws  which  know  not  works  of  man ! 

Cross  themselves  in  pious  horror,  awe-struck  Indians  to  this  day, 
Telling  how  their  stricken  fathers  in  the  earthquake  passed  away. 

Where  the  dread  shock  spared  a  chapel,  priest  infrequent  mass  now  tells, 
And  the  valley  air  still  answers  Angelus  from  sweet-toned  bells. 

Where  the  thousands  lie  forgotton,  here  and  there  a  cross  appears; 
Say  the  unmarked  graves  to  mortals,  "  Lo !  the  record  of  the  years !-" 

Of  those  domes  and  boastful  columns — of  the  roof  and  wall  remains. 
Pile  of  rocks  and  crushed  adobes,  beaten  by  a  thousand  rains. 

Sanctuary  still  is  covered  and  the  shadows  tall  and  gaunt, 
All  its  desolated  niches  like  unrestful  spirits  haunt, 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

As  if  some  from  dust-hosts  lying  in  yon  ground,  a  penance  held 
For  sins  unconfessed  or  rash  vows,  as  by  spirit  law  impelled. 

And  they  say  that  sometimes  voices  chant  within  this  lonely  shrine, 
And  at  midnight  spectral  tapers  round  its  burning  crosses  shine; 

Melt  such  phantoms  at  the  dawning  with  the  shadows  from  its  slope, 
Gleams  on  it  the  morning  sunlight,  but  for  it  no  morning  hope! 

Sofl  'gainst  ocean's  hoarse  boom  falls  the  hum  of  hours  in  idle  flight, 
As  a  picture's  darker  background  brings  the  tender  shades  to  light. 

Mountain  perfumes  and  sea-odors  to  a  sweet  narcotic  blend, 
And  each  day  with  languor  ravished,  slowly  loiters  to  its  end; 

Till  life  seems  an  old  man  dreaming,  and  with  evening's  wond'rous  glow 
Flash  the  ruins  as  old  faces  gleam  with  thoughts  of  long  ago. 


j6  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN   GABRIEL  ARCANGEL. 


A  7EIL  of  the  Sierra  Madre!  sheen  of  light  to  tell  whose  gleam, 
*       Earthly  words  opaque  and  dull-hued,  as  a  child's  clay  image  seem; 

Sunbeams  pale  before  the  shimmer  of  the  opalescent  gauze, 
Where  the  rainbow  hue  diffuse'd,  round  Sierra  Madre  draws 

Veil  of  glowing  iridescence,  woven  from  light's  loosened  rays 
Smit  by  fine  prisms  atmospheric,  in  a  thousand  devious  ways; 

And  methinks,  when  Spanish  Fathers  named  the  town  Los  Angeles, 
That  the  grateful  patron  angels,  loit'ring  on  the  sunlit  breeze, 

Mantles  dropped  of  heav'nly  brightness,  whose  soft  splendors  never  fail, 
And  they  draped  the  Mother's  mountain  in  their  robes — this  lustrous  veil 

Such  the  light  through  which  Sierra  looks  towards  plain  of  Gabriel; 
Such  the  air  which  throbs  responsive  to  its  morn  or  evening  bell. 

All  the  subtle  powers  of  nature,  God's  fine  alchemists  of  old, 
In  this  vale,  as  grand  alembic,  yield  to  man  the  purest  gold; 

Soft  bloom,  that  seems  air  transmuted,  flecks  the  clustered  grapes  with  light, 
Deepens  on  the  downy  umbels  of  the  gardens,  tropic  bright. 

Fair  as  Aztec  princess  wears  the  orange-tree  her  royal  green, 

Through  lace  mantle  of  white  blossoms,  golden  jewels  flash  their  sheen. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  37 

Haste  the  bees  to  sue  her  favors;  for  her  breath  the  soft  airs  sigh; 
Blushing  bride  and  rampant  childhood  for  her  varied  treasures  vie. 

Such  the  place  by  padres  chosen  for  the  patron  angel's  shrine, 
Angel  of  th'  Annunciation  to  the  maid  of  David's  line. 

Farthest  here  once  Mission  farm  lands  spread  o'er  hills  on  every  side; 
Farthest  roamed  their  good  herds  seeking  food  from  mountain  to  the  tide. 

Most  the  Virgin  loved  this  Mission,  to  her  herald  dedicate, 

Near  her  vale  as  "Queen  of  Angels,"  where  the  "  Mother's  Mountains"  wait; 

Early  she  its  cause  espoused,  when  before  her  banner  flung 
Without  hands  upon  the  free  winds — where  a  vision  bright  it  hung — 

Dusky  warriors  backward  started,  smit  by  grace  of  godlike  mien, 
As  once  Romans  in  a  garden,  back  from  face  of  Nazarene; 

And  the  ones  who  came  to  slaughter,  stayed  strange  worship  to  repeat, 
Gifts  from  their  poor  riches  leaving,  with  their  weapons,  at  her  feet 

Long  the  smile  of  peace  thus  given  rested  on  the  Mission  young, 
Till  it  grew  to  strength  gigantic  all  its  humble  sons  among. 

"  Once  the  richest  of  the  Missions,"  now  its  desecrated  feet 
In  pueblo  Mejicano  stand  'mid  squalor  of  the  street. 

Here  dwelt  she  whose  oft-told  story  brings  the  tear  of  sympathy; 
Who  at  six  score  years  said  sadly, "  God  must  have  forgotten  me." 

Kind  to  life,  but  no  more  loving;  when  the  tardy  messenger 
Found  her,  eager  to  rejoin  the  swarthy  tribes  awaiting  her. 


38  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Still  a  few  old  Indians  linger  squatting  in  the  blazing  sun, 
Crooning  of  the  Mission's  splendors  when  atble  lacked  for  none ; 

And  they  tell  of  Padre  Serra,  crossing  their  brows  at  his  name, 
Tales  of  miracles  their  fathers  told  them  of  his  holy  fame; 

How  once  lost  upon  the  mountains  came  he  to  Mojave's  plain, 
Wand'ring  with  his  people  till  the  fever  woke  in  blood  and  brain. 

And  through  all  the  Vildered  journey  told  he  ever  wayside  mass, 
Though  with  thirst  and  famine  fainting,  ne'er  without  it  day  might  pass; 

That  once  from  his  trembling  fingers,  fell  the  cup  of  holy  wine, 

And  with  godless  haste,  the  dry  ground  drank  the  crimson  drops  divine  ; 

When  lo !  from  the  earth's  parched  lips,  red  with  the  stain  of  Precious  Blood, 
Sprang  a  fountain  of  .pure  waters,  sweet  as  Horeb's  smitten  flood; 

And  when  Serra  with  thanksgiving,  would  have  done  some  penance  still, 
Spake  an  angel  in  a  vision,  "Nay  it  was  the  Master's  will." 

Crossed  themselves  again  the  speakers,  lapsing  to  a  broken  dream; 
Passed  the  Pilgrims  wond'ring  dumbly,  what  to  them  this  life  must  seem. 


ROUND  this  old  church,  dark  and  brooding,  tropic  hues  their  colors  paint, 
Bright  as  aureole  around  the  pictured  form  of  haggard  saint. 

But  a  tone  discordant  seems  this  shrine  in  symphony  of  light; 
Have  the  Mother  and  the  Angel  from  it  turned  their  radiant  sight? 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  39 

Poverty  and  age  are  on  it — for  it  can  there  aught  remain 
But  to  gather  to  its  kindred — Gabriel  on  sunny  plain? 

In  the  graveyard  all  dismantled,  honey  bees  find  orange  flowers, 
Sweetness  from  the  home  of  sorrow — thus  brings  time  his  kindest  dowers. 

Now  appears  but  padres'  dwelling  and  from  church  bell-tower  shorn, 
Broken  chime  still  tells  the  story — "Christ  in  Bethlehem  was  bom." 

Still  remain  the  riven  walls  with  rough  stone  stairway  standing  nigh, 
Roof  restored  spans  lofty  chamber,  dim  with  light  from  windows  high ; 

Cold  stone  floors  reach  musty  chancel  damp  with  air  unsunned  for  years, 
While  the  trace  of  many  kneelers,  in  the  worn  square  tiles  appears. 

From  dark  canvas  look  th'  apostles,  forms  which  knew  a  master's  care, 
Showman's  rags  draped  round  old  kings,  now  their  restore'd  colors  glare. 

Stations  of  that  way  appear  by  which  Jerusalem  passed  by — 
From  Sanhedrim  to  the  rabble — mad  to  see  the  Christ-Man  die. 

Gone  all  trace  of  ancient  altar,  but  stand  new-made  shrines  for  prayer, 
And  before  the  mystic  symbols,  pure  light  tells  the  Presence  there; 

But  there  lingers  through  this  dark  room  echo  none  of  sweet  notes  hymned ; 
Drear  it  seems  as  soul  where  doubts  have  faith  and  hope  too  early  dimmed. 

Slow  upon  the  numbed  spirit  creeps  a  horror  in  this  gloom, 

As  if  sigh  from  shrouded  sleeper  smote  one  wandering  in  a  tomb; 

And  the  shrieking  engine  startles  all  the  gaunt  shades  with  its  breath, 
As  it  were  a  fiend  awaking  those  who  lie  unshrived  in  death. 


40  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

'Midst  this  gray  dusk  watches  still  a  group  of  saints  on  pillars  old, 
Faces  dull  and  garments  battered,  names  and  sorrows  long  untold. 

Stands  San  Gabriel,  the  patron,  high  above  the  other  shrines, 
E'en  from  face  of  faded  statue,  still  some  angel  brightness  shines; 

He  most  honored  messenger  of  all  that  stood  before  the  throne, 

When  God  would,  unto  His  creatures,  speak  some  purpose  of  His  own. 

He  th'  interpreter  of  visions  to  the  captive  prophet  sent; 

He  who  sat  at  Eden's  portal,  whence  our  "ling'ring  parents"  went; 

Who  came  to  the  second  Woman  to  announce  the  time  as  near, 

When  through  her,  th'  Avenger  promised  to  the  first  Eve  should  appear, 

Whose  high  message,  "Hail!  thou  blessed  in  divine  maternity," 
Lifted  to  the  throne  in  heaven,  pains  accursed  at  Eden's  tree, 

Stands  with  ample  gathered  wings,  as  if  he  still  were  charged  to  greet, 
With  perpetual  Aves^  maid  who  stands  enshrined  at  his  feet. 

Simple  priestess-maid  Judean !  who  should  in  thy  humble  place, 
Deify  to  all  the  ages,  mother  love  and  mother  grace; 

Round  this  dreary  shrine  thy  roses  blossom  in  the  month  of  May; 
Light  this  gloom  pale  votive  tapers,  when  is  kept  thy  festal  day; 

Then  the  choir's  soft  Incarnatus  trembles  round  thy  vestal  shrine, 
As  the  new  hope  of  the  promise  fluttered  in  thy  soul  divine; 

And  the  eve's  Magnificat  breaks  forth  in  glad  triumphant  tone, 
As  thy  faith  received  the  glory  of  the  promise  as  thine  own. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

•  Maid  "most  pure!"  maid  "gloriosal"  woman  with  a  loving  heart! 
Though  thyself  of  mothers  saddest,  mothers'  comforter  thou  art! 

Patroness  of  every  virtue !  Almoner  unto  mankind ! 

"  Queen  of  men  and  angels!"  in  thee,  "  Lady  Merciful,"  we  find! 

Eve*ry  grace,  from  royal  sceptre  to  the  shepherd's  staff,  wear'st  thou 
In  the  crown  of  many  stars  The  Church  has  placed  upon  thy  brow. 

Pure  impersonation  of  earth's  sublimated  joy  and  pain ! 

Of  that  love  most  'kin  to  God's  own,  stand'st  thou  Mother  of  the  Slain ! 

Motherhood  beatified  woke  in  thy  canticle  of  praise; 

Let  the  ^Eons  antiphone  it,  till  Time  sees  the  end  of  days ! 


4*  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN    BERNARDINO. 
CHAPEL  OF  SAN  GABRIEL. 

A 17 RECK  art  thou  beyond  comparing,  red  clay  pile  of  graceless  shape, 
*  *       E'en  refuse  the  humble  creepers  nakedness  like  thine  to  drape. 

Thou  of  Gabriel  the  chapel — brought  by  priests  to  goodly  state, 
By  the  same  fond  hands  despoiled — for  rebellion  devastate. 

Long  one  strays  with  dreamful  fancies  that  thy  heart  may  whisper  low, 
Some  strong  thought  for  hopeful  living  from  that  life  of  long  ago ; 

But  such  desolation  palls  one  with  a  chill  and  nameless  dread, 
As  if  faith  were  shaken  in  the  resurrection  of  the  dead. 

Sad  we  turn  from  longer  musings,  with  thoughts  like  a  heavy  pall, 
When  anon  a  youthful  Pilgrim  climbs  upon  the  broken  wall; 

Lithe  of  limb  and  supple  sinewed,  forth  he  stretches  childish  hands, 
Where  one  spike  of  tender  blossoms  on  th'  adobe  ledge  yet  stands; 

Gleeful  shout  and  bound  triumphant  bid  retreating  footsteps  heed ; 
Love  and  pride  unite  to  bear  this  trophy  of  the  daring  deed; 

As  he  lays  the  tender  blossom  on  the  waiting  outstretched  palm, 

Its  soft  beauty,  grown  from  ruin,  breathes  a  peace  like  Gilead's  balm; 

Thus  it  murmurs — "Eyes  of  Mercy,  than  a  child's  more  sure  and  kind, 
In  the  worst  wrecked  life  among  us,  may  some  trace  of  beauty  find." 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  43 


SAN   FERNANDO    REY   DE    ESPANA. 


\  T  7OULD  you  breathe  an  air  like  nectar,  fresh  from  heaven's  vaults  distilled, 
*  »       'Neath  a  dome  of  subtlest  ether  by  electric  currents  thrilled, 

Go  to  Valley  of  the  Angels  when  the  autumn  morn  is  there, 
While  the  sun's  magnetic  furnace  seethes  the  aromatic  air. 

Here  through  noon's  transparent  azure,  lights  beyond  it  softly  beam, 
As  a  mantle's  silver  lining  through  its  tissue  web  might  gleam . 

Where  the  mantle,  earthward  falling,  wraps  the  mountain  forms  around, 
At  th'  horizon's  broken  girdle,  silver  border  trails  the  ground. 

Here  the  mountains  burn  at  sunset,  with  that  light  drawn  from  the  skies — 
Trail  of  glory  drifting  backward  from  the  young  world's  sacrifice — 

When  the  Bactrian  high  priest  called  to  earth  celestial  splendors  down, 
And  bade  mortals  worship  fire  as  holy  light  from  Mithra's  crown. 

In  this  valley  host  angelic  floated  'thwart  the  ebbing  day, 

Sent  to  guide  the  fathers'  search  of  shrine  for  San  Fernando  Rey. 

Pointed  they  to  distant  mountain  set  in  opalescent  haze, 

Where  it  looked  adown  the  valley  through  the  evening's  crimson  blaze; 

Pointed  they,  then  upward  floated,  and  a  cloud  around  them  shone, 
Soft  as  smoke  of  curling  incense  from  the  swinging  censer  thrown. 


44  ^    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Burnt  the  moon  as  Real  Presence  o'er  the  shrine  in  heaven  swung, 
Lit  the  stars  their  altar  tapers,  fleece  clouds  as  saints'  banners  hung; 

Through  earth's  nave  in  grand  procession — while  God's  glory  round  them 

burned — 
Radiant  host,  for  vesper  rites,  to  heaven's  lighted  chancel  turned; 

The  Magnificat  exultant,  whose  high  transport  never  dies, 
Chanted  to  the  Queen  of  Angels,  floated  downward  from  the  skies. 

When  the  Morn  dismissed  the  night-guard  from  the  border-land  of  day, 
Smiled  she  to  behold  the  fathers  far  upon  their  heaven-sent  way. 

Grieve  all  hearts  that  love  pure  labors,  wrecking  of  their  earnest  toil; 
Dumb  the  Pilgrims  at  the  Fate  which  gives  man's  best  to  such  despoil 

But  the  gardens  which  they  planted,  fairest  here  of  all  remain, 
'Neath  the  mountain  named  for  patron,  Ferdinand,  the  Saint  of  Spain, 

Olive  trees  still  stand  gigantic  which  a  hundred  years  have  crowned, 
Triple  avenues  defining  all  the  garden's  widest  bound. 

To  their  peaceful  arms  presents  its  thorny  breast  the  cactus  tree, 
And  the  noble  aloes  lift  their  coronets  of  filigree; 

Closed  within,  a  square  protected  shelter  gives  for  clust'ring  vines, 

Rich  in  fruit  the  same  gnarled  trunks  which  gave  the  padres  purple  wines. 

High  among  the  storied  olives,  saintly  palms  their  heads  upraise, 
And  they  mingle  sighs  together  for  the  changed  and  loveless  days; 

Grieve  they  for  the  glebe  unbroken,  for  the  reservoirs  long  dry, 
For  the  aqueducts  where  sere  leaves  in  the  tiny  whirl-winds  fly; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  45 

For  the  Christmas  hollies  redd'ning  unplucked  on  th'  arroyo  bank, 
Where,  ensnarled  with  rugged  willows,  oily  castor  beans  grow  rank. 

Grieve  they  for  the  life  departed,  for  the  ruined  church  hard  by, 
Where  they  see  its  cross  no  longer  outlined  'gainst  the  cloudless  sky. 

Round  the  Pilgrims  spicy  incense  through  the  yawning  door-way  came, 
Burnt  from  cassia's  yellow  pastils  by  the  sun's  God-lighted  flame; 

But  it  fell  upon  no  altar,  for  within  is  naught  to  say 

What  had  been  its  hallowed  usage,  to  the  searcher  of  to-day, 

Save  the  walls  with  broad  marked  columns,  and  the  font's  baptismal  place, 
Ornate  with  bold,  gaudy  pigments — efforts  rude  toward  artist  grace; 

And  the  only  chant  that  ever  sounds  within  the  dreary  pale, 

Is  the  fierce,  hot  wind  of  summer  sweeping  down  this  lonely  vale. 

Still  without,  the  native  houses  cumber  earth  with  hideous  pile, 
Wretched  roof  to  bats  and  swallows  give  they  yet  a  little  while ; 

Stolid  as  despair  an  Indian  dumbly  crouched  beneath  a  wall, 
Genius  of  the  past,  awaiting  freedom  from  the  new  life's  thrall. 

Words  are  not  to  tell  the  utter  gracelessness  of  the  combine, 
Desolate  as  life  despoiled — drear  as  heart  bereft,  this  shrine. 

By  the  padres'  house  the  peppers  cast  their  quiv'ring  shade  to-day, 
O'er  the  stony  basins  thirsting  for  the  fountain's  flashing  spray 

Loveless  hands  have  desecrated  with  rough  storage  grown  for  years, 
And  with  services  of  farm-life,  till  the  tiled  floor  scarce  appears, 


46  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

All  the  corridor  with  arches  where  the  padres  loved  to  pace, 

Looking  down  the  tinted  valley  which  their  toils  had  crowned  with  grace. 

Fair  as  Vega  of  Granada  which  her  ballads  love  to  tell, 

Must  have  seemed  to  them  this  wide  vale  when  their  good  fields  prospered  well. 

Toiled  they,  emulating  zeal  of  him  whose  royal  life  was  spent 

To  redeem  his  land's  perdition — Moorish  "scourge  for  Spain's  sins  sent." 

King  loved  e'en  by  foes  who  yearly  came,  a  hundred  Moors  devout, 
In  procession  bearing  tapers,  royal  cenotaph  about. 

Spake  the  Pilgrims,  "  When  this  patron's  armies  scoured  the  Moro's  plain, 
Came  no  hope  to  his  ambition,  save  the  glory  of  old  Spain  ? 

"  When  he  took  Cordova's  beauty  and  the  gates  of  proud  Seville, 
With  the  pious  sword  and  holy  from  the  turbaned  infidel, 

"  Came  no  dream,  as  angel  blessing  for  such  consecrated  zeal, 

Of  new  lands  which  yet  should  answer  to  the  true  faith's  '  godly  steel  ?  > 

"  Land  whose  hills  should  lift  from  valleys  where  Spain's  olives  yet  might  grow, 
Where  pomegranates  and  lime  hedges  should  in  unknown  sunset  glow, 

"  Where  the  proverbs  and  the  legends  of  the  soft  Castilian  tongue 

O'er  the  flocks  and  fresh-turned  furrows  should,  'neath  other  skies,  be  sung  ? 

"  Sought  the  land — achieved  the  conquest  by  that  king's  advent'rous  race, 
And  the  Moslem-reddened  sabre  found  the  earth's  remotest  place." 

Spake  one  doubting,  "  Tell  his  story  in  the  land  he  saw  in  dreams, 

But  old  shrines  and  Spain's  exotics  o'er  which  th'  unknown  sunset  gleams. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

"  Gone  the  Moors  like  comet  stricken  when  the  risen  sun  is  nigh ! 
Gone  the  noon  of  Spanish  splendor  which  eclipsed  them  in  the  sky ! 

"  Gone  the  great  and  lesser  glory,  but  both  cross  and  crescent  stay ! 
Who  shall  read  aright  God's  lessons  as  He  moulds  the  nations'  clay ! " 


47 


4$  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN  BUENA  VENTURA. 

\  17 HERE  the  ruins  of  Fernando's  Mission  far  to  eastward  lie, 
*  *       And  to  west  Saint  Barbara  still  lifts  the  holy  cross  on  high, 

South-bent  shore  curves  out  a  fair  spot,  sheltered  by  the  coast-range  near, 
Looking  towards  the  distant  islands  through  the  clear  south  atmosphere; 

Air  translucent,  cheating  distance  of  its  boastful  numbered  miles, 
Till  spreads  fairy  land  beneath  us,  cunning  trick  of  nature's  wiles ! 

Narrow  valley  here  its  wealth  spreads  e'en  to  ocean's  fretting  feet; 
Yields  this  bit  of  earth  to  man,  its  lord  acknowledged,  tribute  meet; 

Sea-girt  lies  'neath  hills  fantastic,  bright  with  color  but  unclad 

Save  when  winter — here  a  lover — spreads  o'er  them  his  shaded  plaid; 

And  a  stream  from  distant  canons,  this  vale  with  refreshment  fills, 
As  a  mountain  scout  that  gathers  good  report  from  many  hills. 

Here  was  placed  a  Mission  looking  from  the  slope,  a  rugged  guard, 
Towards  the  sea  which  wakes  the  echoes  with  its  deathless  fusillade. 

Heard  the  Frays,  in  lonely  nocturns,  billows  break  on  silence  grand, 
Sound-waves  'gainst  the  mountains  dashing,  as  the  surf  upon  the  strand. 

Long  this  Mission  for  "  Good  Fortune"  bore  a  name  the  whole  land  through; 
As  attested  many  guests,  the  patron  to  his  name  was  true. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  4-) 

Planted  fathers  rarest  fruits,  with  life  of  Spain's  rich  vegas  fraught, 
And  on  inward  reaching  mesas  all  their  dusky  toilers  wrought; 

Still  on  distant  river  banks,  their  pear  trees  tell  the  old,  old  tale, 
And  the  fine  roots  of  their  walnuts  find  the  springs  that  never  fail. 

Where  the  mountain  valley,  "  Ojai,"  far  below  the  sea-fog  leaves, 
Driest  airs  and  rays  sun-burnished  gave  them  store  of  golden  sheaves. 

"  Eagles'  Nest" — this  vale — an  eyrie  perched  by  Nature  far  aloft, 

Trimmed  with  oaks  and  edged  by  mountains,  lined  with  bloom  and  grasses  soft. 

Six  leagues  northward,  in  the  narrow  canon  of  Matilija, 
Where  a  winding  passage  opens  towards  Tulare  plains  afar, 

On  a  little  bluff  projecting,  one  thick-walled  adobe  stands ; 
Mimic  castle  of  the  mountains — it  the  narrow  pass  commands. 

Here  the  idle  Spanish  soldiers,  playing  monte  all  the  while, 
Waited  for  the  hostile  Indians  trailing  down  the  steep  defile; 

And  'tis  said  that  frightful  goblins  of  the  slaughtered  savage  foe, 

Walk  these  ridges  in  the  moonlight,  when  the  burning  north  winds  blow. 

Where  the  children  of  the  dark  hordes  claiming  once  these  mountains  high  ? 
Scarce  a  score  on  distant  rancho,  toil  they  for  a  place  to  die. 

Their  good  lands  through  Spain's  hands  passing,  measureless  from  hills  to  shore, 
Now  from  leagues  to  varas  shrunken  scarce  protect  the  old  church  door; 

And  that  structure,  hoar  with  sorrows,  sees  its  dearest  mem'ries  die, 
Jostled  by  a  thriving  village  where  rancJieros  sell  and  buy. 


5o  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Gone  the  padres'  rambling  houses  with  the  picturesque  facade; 

Gone  the  weavers  and  the  spinners  from  the  square  enclosed  court-yard ; 

Unused  lies  the  Campos  Santos;  lost  is  Mission  garden  ground; 
Still  a  few  old  Mejicanos  cluster  the  church  steps  around; 

Now  of  olive  orchards  turning  myriad  gray  leaves  from  the  sea, 
On  the  village  streets  ungathered,  drops  its  fruit  each  straggling  tree. 

In  a  modern  door-way  two  old  palms  historic  bide  their  fate, 
Calm  and  brave  as  princely  captives  chained  within  a  hostile  gate. 

Thus  remains  of  many  labors  but  the  church  for  use  to-day, 

Minding  us  of  hands  that  reared  it;  dumbly  asking,  "Where  are  they?  " 

Vibrant  throat  of  bells  still  calling,  marks  the  Ave?s  hour  for  us, 
From  the  turret  named  for  saint  who  taught  The  Church  the  Angelus. 

At  this  parish  church  a  padre,  with  the  stately  mien  of  Spain, 
Serves  the  altar  and  dispenses  wisdom  to  his  humble  train. 

Ne'er  his  closed  eye  nor  his  deaf  ear  turn  to  one  of  these  distressed, 
And  his  courtesy  untiring,  heeds  the  strangers'  tedious  quest; 

Kindly  shows  he  such  church  treasures  as  the  Pilgrims'  eyes  may  see, 
And  explains  with  zealous  fervor  his  faith's  questioned  mystery. 

Just  within  the  wide  church  entrance  from  recess  within  the  wall, 
Copper  font  baptismal  offers  drops  to  cleanse  from  Eden's  fall; 

Mural  frescoes  in  rude  drawings,  show  the  native  artists'  hands, 
And  a  pulpit  quaintly  carven,  pale  in  faded  gilding  stands ; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  51 

Garish  light  from  modern  windows  searches  all  the  canvas  old, 
Where  the  story  of  the  Christus  'neath  the  heavy  cross  is  told; 

Stands  Ventura  Buena,  patron,  priest  and  cardinal  when  young, 
He  the  early-called  by  marvel,  "miracles  of  grace"  among. 

Says  the  tale,  "  A  saint  from  childhood,"  as  was  shown  on  dying  bed, 
When,  by  Francis'  prayers  above  him,  rose  he  as  one  from  the  dead; 

When  th'  Assisan,  spirit  moved,  of  his  great  future  prophesied, 
Proudest  mother  of  Italia,  "  O  Ventura  Buona"  cried. 

Words  of  omen  well  fulfilled,  in  wonder  of  his  later  years, 
In  which  his  humility  e'en  greater  than  his  lore  appears; 

When  he,  kneeling  at  the  altar,  feared  to  take  the  Sacrament, 
Lest  his  hand  defile  the  chalice,  till  an  angel,  heaven-sent, 

Held  to  him  the  Precious  Blood — this  bearer  of  the  Holy  Grail — 
In  the  cup  of  song  memorial — lost  so  long  o'er  hill  and  vale. 

To  the  toiler  of  Assisi,  friend-disciple,  long  he  came, 
Bringing  store  of  learning's  treasure  to  adorn  his  order's  name. 

Looks  he  from  this  old  shrine,  with  a  brave  young  face  inviting  strife ; 
Thus  is  Youth — it  flings  forever  gauntlet  in  the  face  of  Life. 

From  old  pedestals  lean  saints  whose  names  outlive  neglectful  years, 
Toward  the  Virgin  turning  in  mute  testimony  to  her  tears; 

Stands  an  altar  to  Our  Lady — she  of  Guadakipe's  fame; 
Gracious  hands  she  lifts  unto  us  from  an  aureole  of  flame. 


$2  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

But  the  grandest  decoration,  'mid  designs  of  crudest  art, 
Is  an  altar  of  the  Passion  from  the  others  set  apart; 

Ghastly  Christ  on  rude  cross  lifted,  while  behind  the  clear-carved  face, 
All  the  symbols  of  His  sorrow,  on  the  wall  your  tears  may  trace — 

Curse'd  rods  and  cruel  nails  that  once  were  hid  in  holy  flesh; 
Crown  of  thorns  and  mocking  palm-branch;    spear  that  drew  His  life-blood 
fresh; 

Sponge  upheld  in  vile  derision;  robe  of  scorn  they  bade  Him  wear; 
Chalice  of  the  blessed  promise  that  His  life,  His  own  should  share. 

Mother  stands  and  friend  beloved,  'neath  the  cross,  with  struggling  tears, 
Mourning  in  a  long  Good  Friday,  the  fulfillment  of  their  fears. 

Meet  the  place  for  requiem  masses  which  in  holy  week  are  said, 
When  the  prostrate  priest  bewails  the  sorrows  of  the  princely  Dead; 

When  before  th'  uncovered  cross  he  worships  with  the  foot  unshod, 
And  his  chant's  "Reproaches"  rise  as  savory  incense  to  his  God; 

Round  this  shrine  the  Crurifixus  from  the  organ's  dirge  floats  down, 
Drear  as  once  the  noonday  darkness  fell  on  Calvary's  three-crossed  crown. 

But  at  festivals  returning,  Christmas  joy  or  Paschal  glee, 

Fresh  young  voices  flood  the  dark  nave  with  their  tide  of  minstrelsy; 

And  the  rippling  sound  waves  sparkle  'gainst  the  Crucifix'  dull  gloom, 
Bright  as  that  first  Easter  sunlight  flashed  on  Joseph's  garden  tomb. 

What  are  names  to  hearts  that  love  Him !  one  same  hope  is  for  us  all ! 
Jesus  lay  within  the  dark  tomb — grief  for  Him  our  common  pall ! 

Why  the  strifes  that  vex  the  Master!  the  same  themes  our  tongues  employ; 
Christ  was  raised  from  out  the  shadows — love  for  Him  our  common  joy. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  53 


SANTA   BARBARA. 

ANTA  Barbara  stands  fairest  of  the  Mission  shrines  to-day, 

Looking  from  a  rocky  hillside  where  the  mountain  shadows  play; 

Here  the  proud  peaks  to  the  eastward  call  to  those  which  guard  the  west, 
"Ho!  ye  keepers  of  the  sunset,  make  we  here  a  place  of  rest." 

And  their  brothers  to  the  northward  brace  with  sturdy  rugged  sides, 
While  the  warm  encircled  foothills  dip  their  feet  in  cooling  tides; 

And  the  dainty  spot  thus  sheltered — jewel  in  a  mountain  ring — 
Proudly  as  a  fitting  dowry,  princess  to  her  lord  might  bring; 

Here  the  soft  sweet  airs  distilling  seem  a  necromancer's  charm, 
Wearied  soul  and  body  lull  they  till  life  seems  a  dreamful  calm. 

Looked  the  padres  on  the  good  land  sloping  towards  the  toiling  sea. 
Working  waves  of  molten  silver  into  fine  drawn  filigree; 

Toward  the  isles — mirage-built  castles — which  light  paints  against  the  sky, 
With  a  sunbeam  for  a  stylus,  dipped  in  more  than  orient  dye. 

Gazing  from  the  Mission  hillside,  strangers  pause  to  hear  the  tale 

Of  the  ghosts  that  haunt  these  islands  with  their  flambeaux  far  and  pale; 

For  old  sailors  told  the  story,  how  at  midnight  they  had  seen, 

When  the  blackened  sky  hung  darkest  and  the  sea  took  deepest  green, 


54  ^    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Phantom  skiffs  like  title  shadows,  and  their  rowers  tall  and  stark, 
Flit  with  torches  'cross  the  channel,  through  the  hollow  of  the  dark, 

From  the  Ana  Capa  to  the  Santa  Cruz'  steep  jagged  shore, 

And  from  Santa  Rosa  backward,  through  the  still  night  o'er  and  o'er, 

Back  and  forward  to  the  mainland,  to  the  Missions  white  and  still, 
Barbara's  and  far  Ventura's  faintly  limned  against  the  hills; 

Long  the  rites  upon  the  islands,  as  if  there  were  celebrate 
The  returning  day  of  burial  of  some  savage  potentate; 

And  the  torchlights  white  and  spectral  swept  the  Indians'  swart  lines, 

Till  the  shapes  seemed  ghouls  of  fable,  feasting  round  some  charnel  shrines.. 

And  the  sailors  held  the  omen  to  portend  swift  coming  storms, 

When  the  phantom  flames  thus  flickered  lambent  round  the  goblin  forms. 

Where  the  list'ning  Pilgrims  paused  to  watch  the  distant  billows  roll, 
Stood  the  padres,  with  their  great  zeal,  grieving  o'er  each  pagan's  soul. 

Looked  they  when  the  winter  verdure  draped  with  beauty  outlines  drear, 
And  the  softened  heart  of  Nature  spake,  "O  toilers,  rest  ye  here." 

Built  they  when  the  spring-time  brightened  with  star-flowers  the  rugged  slopes; 
Patron  chose — a  maid  whose  spring-time  beamed  with  martyr's  star-bright  hopes; 

And  the  Mission  of  their  rearing  lifts  its  comely  head  to-day, 
Smiling  down  on  resting  valley,  hills  and  town  and  sweeping  bay. 

Looked  it  once  on  countless  Indians  crowded  in  this  pleasant  place, 

Now  on  blooming  slopes  and  plain  which  Saxon  thrift  has  crowned  with  grace. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  jj 

See  the  fair  and  good  proportions  scarce  defaced  by  Time's  rough  hand, 
Corridors  with  Roman  arches  gracing  cloisters  where  they  stand. 

Still  within  old  aqueducts,  the  mountain's  prisoned  waters  flash, 
Reservoirs  with  goodly  joinings  hold  e'en  yet  the  fountain's  plash; 

Round  it  broken  walls  are  crumbling,  which  but  lend  a  rougher  grace, 
As  a  rustic  frame  which  heightens  beauty  of  a  pictured  face. 

Walls  of  stone  from  pave  to  turret,  strong  as  tower  on  armed  field, 
Roof  of  tiles  uplift  to  heaven — tiles  the  weight  of  warrior's  shield. 

Massive  towers  defend  the  portal,  and  the  bells  still  tell  their  tale : 
"  God  and  truth  go  on  forever,  'tis  the  faith  of  man  doth  fail." 

Ent'ring  through  a  great  stone  doorway,  distant  taper  greets  the  sight, 
Like  a  star  of  promise  burning  through  life's  sorrow-clouded  night. 

Here  dwells  half-score  brothers  serving — rise  their  prayers  each  hour  of  day; 
One  old  priest  untiring  worships  in  true  mediaeval  way. 

Nigh  a  thousand  score  of  masses  he  most  piously  has  said; 
True  disciple  of  St.  Francis — waits  the  crown  his  tonsured  head. 

Dim  light  from  the  small  high  windows,  shrouds  in  gloom  the  outlines  where 
Slow  appears  a  monk  Franciscan,  kneeling  at  a  shrine  of  prayer; 

Friar  in  a  long  gray  garment,  hooded  folcls  of  heavy  serge, 

At  the  waist  with  white  cord  girdled,  heavy  knotted  as  a  scourge — 

Five  times  knotted,  to  betoken  honors  first  by  heaven  deigned 
To  the  man  whose  tortured  flesh  was  by  revered  stigmata  stained. 


56  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Shadow-like  he  moves  to  greet  us,  and  the  rosary  falls  down 
Where  the  naked  foot  in  sandal  shows  beneath  the  heavy  gown. 

What  is  this  revealed  through  gloaming!  picture  old  a  thousand  years, 
From  Time's  darkened  canvas  stepping,  of  the  age  when  faith  meant  fears. 

Spake  he  gracious  words  of  welcome,  and  one  started  from  the  dream 
Which  the  dim  light  threw  around  one,  with  its  mediaeval  gleam. 

With  a  graceful  patience  points  he  to  what  strangers  come  to  see — 
Arches,  columns,  and  the  walls  marked  with  rude  frescoes'  tracery; 

'Midst  the  pillars  quaint  old  pictures,  fearful  scenes  our  terrors  know; 
Copies  some,  and  some  old  masters,  brought  from  Spain  and  Mejico; 

Side  altars  to  saints  and  martyrs  where  the  faithful  pause  a  space, 
With  an  Ave  breathed  before  the  relic  'neath  each  seale'd  place; 

One  is  held  in  special  rev'rence — here  lie  bones  of  little  child, 
Brought  with  signet  of  the  "Papa"  from  the  catacombs  defiled. 

Nero  lies  in  earth  unhonored,  sceptre  crumbled  to  the  dust, 

Maiden's  mem'ry  fondly  cherished,  write  the  Years  their  verdict,  "Just." 

'Neath  this  floor,  stone-vaulted  tombs  hold  old  Castilian  families; 
Still  the  chancel  paves  are  lifted  when  a  Mission  father  dies; 

With  them  lies  the  first  appointed  bishop  of  this  western  shore; 
Hangs  his  sacred  hat  above  him — mitre  carved  in  panel  o'er. 

Unto  Mary's  shrine  looks  Joseph  with  his  face  of  patience  mild, 
As  of  old  in  Egypt's  refuge,  watched  he  o'er  the  Maid  and  Child ; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  J7 

Round  them,  saints  of  many  nations,  bound  in  worship  of  one  Lord; 
Far  above  Saint  Barbara,  whose  young  heart  knew  the  sweet  accord; 

She  who  from  the  great  Origen  heard  the  new  faith's  mystic  lore; 
She  whose  face  graved  on  their  shields,  as  charm  'gainst  death,  brave  warricrs 
bore; 

Who  from  her  three-windowed  tower — where  her  father  sought  to  hide 
Intellect  and  rarest  beauty  he  would  place  a  throne  beside — 

Saw  unmoved  the  flaming  pageants  of  the  princely  cavaliers; 

Wed  her  heart  to  heavenly  bridegroom,  to  His  sorrows  and  His  tears. 

When  she  smote,  in  godly  wrath,  fair  idols  from  their  pedestals, 
And  contemned  their  pagan  beauty,  which  graced  her  ancestral  halls, 

To  the  judges  this  fair  daughter,  father  gave  with  his  own  hand, 
Asking  he,  of  child  ungrateful,  executioner  might  stand; 

When  the  glittering  edge  he  impious,  dared  to  lift  o'er  that  brave  head, 
Outraged  heaven  spoke  in  horror,  stood  he  in  the  act — stark  dead. 

As  at  this  lone  shrine  Franciscan,  her  small  relic  rev'rence  stirs, 
So  at  grander  altars  stands  she,  "mentioned  in  four  calendars." 

Spreads  within  the  sacristy  young  priest,  with  rev'rent  pride,  each  fold 
Of  the  vestments  old  and  broidered,  rich  with  symbols  wrought  in  gold; 

Shows  he  silver  pyx  and  chalice;  precious  thuribles  gold-lined; 
Mite  of  True  Cross  fondly  cherished,  by  Faith's  eyes  alone  defined; 

And  old  saints  that  stood  dejected,  as  if  from  the  altar  cast, 
Round  a  crucifix  as  saying,  "True  our  love  e'en  to  the  last;" 


$8  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Crucifix  of  cunning  carving,  where  a  matchless  hand  has  shown 
Tale  of  Olivet's  grand  passion,  with  a  grace  some  master's  own. 

Such  the  vivid  truth  of  line,  the  heart  swells  with  a  sudden  throe; 

Seems  Gethsemane's  low  moan  to  throb  once  more  through  midnight  woe; 

Seems  the  cry  of  Calvary  to  ring  through  sounding  years  again — • 
Cry  wrung  from  a  soul's  great  anguish  which  surpassed  all  fleshly  pain. 

Mute  with  thought,  through  long  dim  cloisters,  grope  we  to  yon  spot  of  day, 
As  our  spirits  blindly  stumble  through  earth's  doubts  toward  heavenly  ray. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SANTA  YNEZ. 

Saint  Barbara  to  northward  reached  afar  her  greeting  hands, 
O'er  the  mountains  to  a  fair  place  in  which  sister  altar  stands ; 

Where  the  rugged  steeps,  San  Marcos,  look  towards  leagues  of  spreading  green, 
Held  by  rancho  of  San  Carlos,  a  Canada  lies  between; 

"La  Canada  de  los  Pinos" — wider. canon  of  the  pines; 

Place  so  named  by  poet-padres,  "  College  Ranch"  this  age  defines. 

In  a  spot  'neath  shading  mountains  where  bright  waters  constant  roam, 
With  her  name  for  stream  and  hill-top,  chose  young  Saint  Ynez  her  home; 

E'en  to-day  her  lands  are  comely — leagues  to  east  and  west  they  lie; 
Rios  and  arrbyos  bring  their  life  to  plains  from  mountains  high. 

Still  upon  these  cragged  slopes  the  deer  feed  in  the  twilight  glow, 
While  the  bear  and  pigmy  lion  keep  at  bay  the  common  foe. 

Here  Madrono,  masquerader,  makes  the  shrubby  forest  gay; 
Hangs  the  Manzanita  shyly,  berries  bright  by  mountain  way. 

On  the  creeks  the  plant  of  Gilead  finds  the  bay's  funereal  tree; 
Heaven's  healing  on  Death's  footstep  follows,  if  we  will  but  see. 

Of  these  hills  the  herds  unconquered,  ownership  with  grizzlies  claimed, 
Ruled  the  bullock  o'er  the  mountain,  as  some  savage  prince  untamed. 


60  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Often  here  the  wild  rodeo  tore  the  dust  from  ev'ry  hill, 
And  the  bellowing  of  cattle  made  the  very  tree-tops  thrill. 

Proud  rode  forth  the  brave  vaquero^  horse  and  rider  moved  as  one, 
Pawed  the  ground  th'  impatient  mustang,  eager-  for  the  fray  begun. 

Dashed  they  in  'mong  fierce  bands  surging,  wild  as  billows  winter-lashed; 
Like  white  boats  o'er  waves  wind-driven,  their  sun-bright  sombreros  flashed; 

Parting  rightward,  parting  leftward,  that  each  ranch  its  own  might  gain; 
Savage  bullocks  with  their  wide  horns,  plowed  the  trembling  earth  in  vain; 

For  the  hissing  keen  riatas1  level  circles  small  or  great, 

Seized  upon  the  maddened  captives,  like  a  fierce  pursuing  fate; 

Supple  dropped  on  horns  defiant,  sinuous  caught  the  flying  feet; 
Swayed  each  rider  in  his  saddle,  with  a  movement  bold  and  fleet; 

Backward  braced  the  foaming  mustang,  rolled  the  conquered  to  the  ground, 
Helpless  'neath  the  branding  iron,  firmly  by  the  skilled  noose  bound. 

Gone  the  wild  herds  from  the  mountains;'  ride  forth  few  vaqueros  now; 
Hang  the  braided  lithe  riatas  useless  on  the  saddle-bow; 

For  the  droves  in  paltry  numbers,  tame  as  barn-yard  bovines  stand, 
In  their  bondage  scarce  rebelling  at  the  hot  iron's  servile  brand. 


A  \J  HERE  the  mountain's  veil  is  bluest,  like  bones  bleaching  in  the  sun, 
*  "       Lie  stark  ruins  of  the  work  built  late  ere  padres'  time  was  done; 

Mission  young  when  Anarchy  its  night  spread  o'er  the  fair  south  land; 
'Midst  the  gloom  its  tender  life  was  strangled  by  Might's  ruthless  hand. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  61 

Guards  this  shrine  one  aged  Indian  of  the  few  who  while  away, 
Huddled  in  a  rugged  canon,  what  remains  of  their  marked  day. 

Near  the  rancherias  abandoned,  signs  of  former  life  abound ; 
Arrow-heads  and  curious  ollas  still  in  yawning  graves  are  found; 

Broken  walls  of  reservoirs  and  gardens  stand  on  every  side, 

Like  a  row  of  head-stones  telling  of  the  hopes  which  there  have  died. 

Stands  a  corridor  of  arches,  turned  to  greet  the  rising  sun; 
One  waits  for  his  benediction,  when  for  us  his  work  is  done. 

Through  the  fathers'  stone-paved  chambers  rings  the  heel's  half-shrinking  tread, 
Drear  as  mem'ries  through  a  heart  which  knows  all  hopes  of  earth  are  dead. 

Iron  doors  and  cloisters  bolted;  rusty  locks  resist  the  hand; 

What  is  this  whose  blackness  threatens  where  the  barre'd  gateways  stand ! 

Dungeon  sunless  as  the  sorrow  which  its  walls  have  echoed  back; 
Soldier  life  and  priestly  ruling,  here  have  left  a  certain  track. 

Judge  not,  by  the  light  we  live  in,  men  who  wrought  in  greater  gloom; 
Leave  to  Him  whose  vision  reaches  from  earth's  cradle  to  her  tomb. 

God  alone  can  sift  the  gleanings  which  the  years  have  gathered  in, 
Horrors  marked  with  holy  purpose ;  good,  with  serpent  trail  of  sin. 


OTANDING  'neath  the  bells'  high  arches,  by  the  low  church  portal  wide, 
^     Loath,  as  to  a  home  deserted,  o'er  the  sill  our  slow  steps  glide. 

Not  the  walls  a  murmur  whisper,  'neath  high  windows'  shaded  light, 
Of  a  priestly  benediction,  or  from  chant  of  neophyte. 


62  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Still  remain  with  rude  old  carvings,  rafters,  choir  and  chancel  rail; 
Old  confessionals  grown  stolid,  list'ning  to  the  oft-told  tale. 

No  flame  typifies  the  Presence,  as  the  Spirit  aye  had  flown, 

And  it  seemed  nor  saint  nor  angel  here  neglected  shrine  would  own. 

Nay,  behold,  in  distant  gloaming,  as  the  last  on  Calvary's  hill, 
Stands  the  Mother  fondly  clinging  to  her  loved  One's  altar  still. 

And  anear  her  Saint  Yne'z  the  patroness  of  this  drear  shrine; 
White  lamb  in  her  young  arms  lying — type  of  purity  divine; 

Fair  Saint  Agnes  "virgin,  martyr,"  emblem  meet  this  lamb  so  white, 
Of  the  innocence  which  baffled  horrors  of  that  cursed  night, 

When  the  loosened  powers  of  Satan  dragged  thee  to  a  place  of  shame, 
Hoping  to  befoul  with  slanders,  maiden  brightness  of  thy  name; 

When  grew  by  an  instant  marvel,  thy  fair  hair  to  lustrous  veil, 
Shielding  all  thy  naked  beauty;  thus  did  thy  deep  prayer  prevail; 

Night  in  which  a  heavenly  radiance  filled  the  chamber  of  thy  pain, 
Smiting  with  strange  blindness  those  who  would  thy  solitude  profane; 

Room  which  stands  to-day  a  chapel,  'neath  the  streets  of  modern  Rome, 
Where  mosiacs  and  reliefs  still  trace  the  woes  that  took  thee  home; 

Peaceful  as  this  lamb  thy  face,  when  for  the  knife  the  Roman  foe 
Bade  thee  gather  back  thy  bright  hair  from  thy  curving  throat  of  snow. 

Lonely  women  in  this  weird  place — watching  sleepers  round  your  fane ! 
Gone  their  broken  homes  and  altars !  guard  their  rest — their  toils  were  vain ! 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  63 

'"TWO  leagues  distant  stands  the  college  named  for  Mary,  as  benign 
•*•       Patroness  of  Guadaliipe,  Mejico's  beloved  shrine. 

Sweet  the  story  of  Our  Lady  who  on'  Guadaliipe's  site, 

Showed  her  pure  face  to  an  Indian,  late  redeemed  from  pagan  rite; 

While  he  wandered  through  the  cactus,  pondering  her  virtues  rare, 
Lo!  upon  the  hill  before  him,  stood  her  semblance  passing  fair; 

And  she  softly  spoke  unto  him,  while  he  sank  upon  the  earth, 
"Fear  not,  son  of  Montezuma,  chosen  thou  e'en  from  thy  birth; 

"Bear  my  message  to  the  fathers,  that  a  house  they  build  me  here, 
And  my  glory  shall  rest  on  it: — Son,  depart  with  heart  of  cheer." 

And  her  smile,  a  radiant  blessing,  fell  upon  his  spirit's  strife, 
Soft  as  sweet  dew  of  the  manna  feeding  with  the  bread  of  life ; 

Then  a  darkness  smote  his  dim  soul,  and  a  dread  doubt  on  him  fell; 
Thrice  repeated  was  the  vision  ere  he  dared  the  tale  to  tell. 

Spake  the  fathers,  gravely  doubting,  "  Lo !  the  winter  time  perceive, 
Bring  us  now  the  Mother's  flowers,  and  thy  message  we'll  believe." 

Went  he  forth  to  sunlight  darkened,  prostrate  at  his  rocky  shrine, 
When  a  voice  like  soft  air  pulsing,  spake  in  cadences  divine; 

Paused  the  smitten  earth  to  listen,  wheeled  the  birds  and  hung  in  air; 
"Son,  behold  yon  barren  rock  and  thence  my  sacred  roses  bear." 

When  before  the  bishops  laid  he  his  rough  tilma  on  the  ground, 
Stood  rebuked  unto  their  servant,  prelates  deep  in  lore  profound; 


64  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

On  the  robe  of  aloe  thread,  'neath  mystic  roses  piled  as  May, 
Was  the  Dame  of  Guadalupe,  pictured  in  a  wond'rous  way. 

Stands  to-day  an  altar  where  her  blessed  feet  made  holy  ground, 
And  the  homes  of  Guadalupe  throng  the  Mother's  doors  around. 

Thus  as  bloom,  Our  Lady's  legends  crown  the  tree  of  faith  with  grace, 
And  peace,  as  their  sweet  aroma,  fills  the  hearts  that  love  her  face. 

But  her  lonely  college  standing  'midst  Saint  Agnes'  goodly  lands, 
Token  gives  of  slow  decay,  as  slips  the  labor  from  its  hands. 

Fare-thee-well,  O  Mission !  thwarted  as  a  life  born  out  of  time ; 

Scarce  had  pulsed  to  full  existence,  ere  was  hushed  thy  heart-beat's  chime. 

On  thee  now  the  sunset  reddens,  dropping  down  from  sky  and  hills; 
Thus  Time  shrouds  in  twilight  glory  ages  past  and  veils  their  ills. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  63 


LA   PURISIMA   CONCEPCION. 


T    A  Purisima  Concepcion — thus  their  faith  the  founders  tell; 

*-'     Tender  names  on  shrines  and  valleys,  read  us  their  hearts'  loving  well. 

Stood  the  Mission  first  to  bear  of  Mary's  holy  birth  the  name, 
One  league  westward  from  the  present;  to  it  sorrows  early  came. 

Looked  afar  its  goodly  frontage,  from  the  hills  to  verdant  plain, 
By  the  river  Saint  Yne'z,  which  hastens  here  to  join  the  main. 

On  this  Mission's  natal  day,  the  feast  of  La  Purisima, 

While  the  neophytes  were  kneeling,  shook  the  smit  earth  near  and  far. 

From  the  devastation  of  the  falling  walls  and  yawning  ground, 
Natives,  deeming  it  God's  anger,  fled  to  shelt'ring  mountains  round. 

Long  the  fathers  sought  to  break  the  spell  of  superstitious  dread; 
Now  in  thriving  town  the  ruin  stands  among  the  living — dead ; 

And  stone  aqueducts  unbroken,  take  the  river's  stream  to-day, 
Cool  and  pure  as  first  they  bore  it,  nigh  a  hundred  years  away. 

Where  the  Santa  Rita  Valley  stretches  to  Purisima, 

And  the  curving  foothills  shelter  from  the  salt  breeze  drifting  far, 

New  Purisima  Concepcion  raises  pillared  square  facade, 

Roof  upon  broad  shoulders  lifting;  long,  low,  unarched  colonnade. 


66  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Portal  pimienta  shaded,  looks  to  reservoirs  long  dry ; 
Fountains  gone  from  stony  gargoyles  gaping  hideous  to  the  sky; 

Broad  low  roof,  tile-covered,  shelters  wall  which  bravely  time  withstands; 
All  within  bears  cruel  trace  of  many  spoilers'  daring  hands. 

Other  touch  than  Time's  has  robbed  it — torn  the  pavement  from  the  floors, 
Ev'ry  sash  from  out  its  windows,  and  the  casements  from  the  doors. 

Outraged  priest  his  treasures  gathered,  when  a  stranger  claimed  the  place, 
And  of  holy  churchly  uses,  left  he  but  defining  trace. 

Tells  a  leaning  chancel  rail  the  spot  where  stood  an  altar,  when 
Floated  down,  like  bird  ill-omened,  yon  old  gall'ry's  last  "Amen." 

Stark  as  criminal  forgotten,  hangs  the  pulpit  to  the  wall, 
Yawns  the  earth  as  grave  beneath  it,  all  impatient  for  its  fall. 

Scarce  a  trace  of  pleasant  living  marks  the  row  of  padres'  rooms ; 
Chill  and  damp  and  lifeless  stand  they  as  the  rifled  Appian  tombs; 

Hide  the  bats  within  its  shadows;  swallows  cling  unto  its  walls; 
Softly  slip  the  gilded  lizards  o'er  the  porch  where  sunlight  falls. 

But  a  breath  of  horror  hovers  still  about  the  donjon  keep, 

Whispering  of  the  souls  that  shuddered  as  if  there  they  yet  might  weep; 

Indian  souls,  that  saw  no  beauty  in  the  life  they  learned  anew, 
Yearning  for  their  fathers'  freedom,  to  their  savage  instincts  true. 

Lingers  on  this  ruin's  front  a  cannon-ball's  depression  still, 

Made  when  daring  natives  dragged  the  weapon  to  the  fronting  hill; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  67 

But  the  gentle  Mother,  watchful  of  the  shrine  that  named  her  "  Pure," 
Gave  to  them  a  vision  worthy  souls  from  lowest  hell  to  lure; 

When  at  night  they  would  have  burned  the  wooden  cross  that  marked  the  plain, 
Lo !  amidst  the  flames  infuriate,  unhurt  by  the  fire's  red  stain, 

Stood  the  Mother  "  ever  virgin,"  and  upon  them  softly  smiled — - 

Look  that  would  from  Satan's  own  breast  his  worst  purpose  have  beguiled ; 

And  when  died  the  light  in  darkness,  stood  the  cross  unscathed  by  fire; 
Turned  to  their  allegiance  e'en  the  hearts  most  moved  by  savage  ire. 

Thus  she  watched  and  stayed  the  ruin  till  th'  appointed  hour  was  come, 
When,  as  saith  the  ancient  story,  'gainst  Fate  e'en  the  gods  are  dumb. 

But  this  shrine,  a  lovely  picture  'gainst  the  hillside's  green  is  spread, 
And  the  drooping  outlines  tell  the  artist-author — priestly  dead. 

Columns  white  stand  'gainst  the  darkness,  in  a  bas-relief  sun-cast, 
Traced  with  arabesque  of  shadow,  by  the  pepper  boughs  wind-grasped. 

'Gainst  the  gloom,  from  light  reflected,  window-slips  outflash  like  smiles, 
As  our  faces  beam  with  sunlight  o'er  the  hearts  no  joy  beguiles. 

As  a  painter  on  his  palette  tries  the  hues  his  dreams  have  seen, 
Storm  and  sun  upon  this  tiled  roof  toy  with  tints  of  unnamed  sheen; 

Dainty  bit  of  nature's  trifling;  to  repeat  her  work  most  deft; 
Fall  the  pen  and  brush  presuming,  of  their  fulsome  pride  bereft. 

Lovely  in  its  desolation,  lies  this  wreck  upon  life's  shore; 

Ne'er  again  the  earth  shall  call  it !  man  shall  know  its  place  no  more ! 


68  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE, 


SAN   LUIS   OBISPO   DE    TOLOSA. 

HEN  the  fathers  passed  to  southward  from  Antonio's  new-made  shrine, 
Just  within  the  shelt'ring  steeps  which  bend  to  skirt  the  sea-coast  line, 

Full  two  score  of  leagues  their  journey,  as  the  bee  his  pathway  grades; 
Many  score  they  wandered  blindly  in  and  out  'mong  unknown  glades. 

While  they  yet  were  strangers  in  the  passes  of  the  mountain  land, 
Ne'er  forgot  the  loving  Master,  burdens  of  the  patient  band; 

Once  within  a  deep,  lone  canon,  when  night  found  them  without  bread, 
Came  toward  them  o'er  wooded  hill-side — shadowed  glories  round  his  head — 

One  who  led  them  in  sweet  converse,  and  laid  bread  upon  their  board ; 
Found  the  morn  their  guest  departed,  and  their  hampers  newly  stored; 

And  a  radiant  youth  oft  met  them,  offering  flask  of  grateful  wine, 
And  they  felt  its  sweet  refreshment,  knowing  not  the  gift  divine. 


OON  a  jutting  point  they  chose,  which  would  a  crescent  haven  make, 
Lest  'gainst  their  poor  caravels  the  ocean  surge  too  roughly  break. 

From  this  spot  the  bold  bluffs  rising  brace  their  backs  against  the  waves, 
Saying  to  the  driven  trade-winds,  "  Not  too  rude,  ye  ocean  slaves." 

On  these  rugged  cliffs  to  seaward,  opened  are  the  graves  to-day, 
Where  the  unbaptized  were  buried  with  their  vessels  of  coarse  clay. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  69 

Hence  a  mountain-crowded  canon  reaches  inward  from  the  sea, 
Till  it  meets  two  pointed  summits  lifting  heaven's  canopy; 

Here  for  Louis  of  Toulouse  they  set  the  bishop's  crosier  down, 
Gave  his  name  to  dreamful  valley,  river,  and  the  mountain's  crown  ; 

He  who  to  the  throne  of  Naples  for  Christ's  love  gave  up  his  claim; 
Who  bare-footed,  unattended,  prelate  to  Tolosa  came; 

Ne'er  forgot  was  the  good  lesson  of  humility  thus  shown, 

By  the  eager  crowds  which  waited,  his  young  mitred  head  to  own. 

From  this  shrine  by  Serra's  own  hand  planted  in  the  wilderness, 
Looked  the  patron  on  the  padres'  early  struggles  and  distress. 

Saw  the  horde  of  naked  wretches  glide  from  hut  or  hidden  cave, 
With  the  stealth  of  evil  spirits — longed  his  heart  their  souls  to  save; 

Looked  he  on  two  goodly  rivers  meeting  just  below  his  feet, 

Saw  the  flocks  yet  unborn  feeding  on  the  wide  plains'  verdure  sweet; 

Looked  upon  the  valley  pierced  by  rugged  buttes  which  singly  stand, 
Boldly  stationed  as  a  chain  of  sentinels  across  the  land. 

Far  beyond,  th'  Arroyo  Grande  hills  he  saw  in  dim  blue  fade, 

Sweeping  round  to  meet  the  bluffs  which  here  bid  restless  tides  be  stayed, 

Then  the  patron  smiled  approving,  for  he  saw  the  land  was  fair; 
Far  beyond  its  fellows  prospered  this  young  shrine  beneath  his  care; 

And  soon  rose  the  solid  walls  which  claim  their  place  'mongst  men  to-day, 
For  their  time  the  most  pretentious  owning  Missions'  youthful  sway. 


70  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

O'er  the  portal's  triple  arches,  sweetest  bells  from  Spain  long  swung; 
Now  in  modern  tower  look  they  criminals  in  gallows  hung. 

Where  the  tiled  roof  low  extended  o'er  a  sweeping  colonnade, 
Now  glares  sun  on  uncapped  pillars,  grim  as  conscript  picket-guard. 

This  the  corridor  historic,  by  the  tales  the  people  tell — 

Be  they  verity  or  legend — of  strange  scenes  which  here  befell; 

For  once  paced  a  sad  procession — grieved  the  morning  at  the  sight — 
Bent  forms  draped  in  sombre  garments,  dark  against  the  Mission's  white. 

Bowed  heads,  with  rebozos  covered,  followed  where  Ramona  led — 
Brave  Ramona  de  Pacheco,  lifting  proud  uncovered  head. 

Came  senoras  leading  children,  from  a  night  of  prayer  and  grief, 
Seeking  from  young  Fremont  pardon  for  Don  Jesus  Pico,  chief. 

To  their  slow  half-smothered  footsteps,  sighed  the  corridor's  cold  pave, 
As  they  passed  to  the  commander,  blessed  with  power  from  death  to  save. 

As  of  old  came  Roman  matrons,  seeking  for  their  city's  life, 
At  his  feet  knelt  these  untiring — stern  the  soldier's  spirit  strife; 

Tolled  the  Mission  bells  the  moments;  paced  the  sentries  to  and  fro; 
Flung  the  sun  his  bloody  banners;  still  the  pleaders  would  not  go. 

Came  the  word  to  stay  the  sentence;  "Gradas  Dios"  checked  their  tears; 
As  alcalde  of  the  country,  lived  Don  Jesus  many  years. 

Served  this  corridor  for  barracks  or  defence  'gainst  murd'rous  band, 
Or  for  weddings'  grand  fiestas  while  peace  still  smiled  o'er  the  land. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  7, 

Thence  on  festal  days  the  padres  on  the  gala  scene  looked  down; 
Rudest  games  and  feats  athletic,  Indians'  simple  lives  to  crown ; 

Or  when  'gainst  the  waving,  red  flag,  goaded  bull  his  fierce  head  bent; 
'Neath  his  raging  horns  too  often  flowed  man's  brave  blood,  idly  spent. 

Thus  passed  years  of  toil  and  pleasure  'neath  the  padres'  gentle  laws; 
Never  houseless  was  the  stranger ;  ne'er  forgot  the  Master's  cause. 

Thronged  its  neophytes  by  thousands;  o'er  the  hills  its  glad  bells  pealed; 
When  the  storm  broke  lacked  it  not  its  martyr  waiting  to  be  sealed. 

For  'twas  here  that  Fray  Ramon  spent  many  years  of  faithful  life; 
Torn  to  shreds  his  goodly  labors  in  the  time's  chaotic  strife. 

Driven  from  its  wealth  forth  went  he  to  a  hut  with  naked  walls, 

Thence  from  crusts  shared  with  the  Indians  passed  he  to  the  angel  halls. 

And  'tis  said  that  when  the  hour  came  which  should  give  his  soul  release, 
Through  the  hut  throbbed  heavenly  brightness  and  a  hymn  assuring  peace; 

And  athwart  the  light  which  seemed  as  radiance  from  bright  wings  down  cast, 
Glorious  face,  like  pictured  semblance  of  St.  Francis,  slowly  passed, 

As  this  saint  himself  would  bear,  e'en  to  the  Master's  very  throne, 
Soul  that  served  its  fellows  with  an  ardor  like  the  Master's  own. 

And  they  claim  that  round  the  spot  made  sacred  by  such  scene  sublime, 
Yearly,  at  that  hour's  returning,  angel  voices  softly  chime. 


ONE  the  plaza  and  the  fountains;  Spain's  delights  for  aye  are  fled; 
E'en  the  square  of  consecration  now  receives  no  more  the  dead; 


12  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Gone  the  neophytes  who  wondered  while  the  unknown  God  they  praised; 
Aliens  till  their  rolling  valleys — strangers  hold  the  walls  they  raised 

Where  were  laid  the  Mission  gardens,  the  young  city's  streets  are  led, 
'Midst  them  apricot  and  pear  tree,  here  and  there,  lift  outcast  head. 

Long  San  Luis  raised  his  staff  o'er  sweeping  leagues'  unbounded  line; 
Crowded  now  to  sanctuary,  scarce  the  patron  knows  his  shrine: 

Years  agone  each  sacred  vestige  of  the  ancient  altar  went, 
Every  pedestal  and  pillar  with  the  saints  that  from  them  bent ; 

But  Madonnas  of  all  pencils  look  from  canvas  old  or  fair, 
From  the  Mother  sorrow-stricken  to  the  Maid  with  flowing  hair. 

Stations  of  the  Holy  Cross  still  tell  the  progress  of  that  train, 
Crowd  accursed  which  led  or  followed,  towards  the  hill  of  final  pain; 

Tell  the  fearful  scenes  which  marked  the  sacrifice  of  that  pure  One, 
Who  on  Via  Dolorosa  fainted  'neath  Judean  sun. 

To  this  day,  'midst  many  strifes,  the  brave  old  walls  unchanged  have  stood; 
From  them  looks  the  youthful  patron  in  a  shrined  solitude, 

San  Jose,  his  only  comrade,  and  the  fair  Santa  Maria; 

Kneel  before  them  strange  new  faces  varied  with  each  busy  year. 

Such  the  Mission  of  San  Luis — died  it  'midst  the  nation's  strife; 
Scarce  cling  memories  as  cerements — look  its  walls  on  alien  life; 

Haste  the  moderns  to  destroy  them;  each  year  breaks  some  graceful  line, 
And  within  is  effort  futile,  to  perceive  its  past  design. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  7j 

But  without,  the  shock  is  greater — glaring  paint  on  crumbling  mould, 
As  a  tinsel  crown  bedizens  brow  unwillingly  grown  old. 

Sought  in  vain  the  Pilgrims  for  some  trace  to  bind  it  to  the  past; 
Sentiment  and  dreams  are  not  where  springs  the  young  life  hurrying  fast 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SANTA   MARGARITA. 
CHAPEL    OF    SAN    Luis    OBISPO. 

'"PHREE  leagues  northward  from  San  Luis,  where  begin  the  hills  Lucia, 
•*•       Stood  a  chapel  to  Saint  Margaret,  she  unto  all  mothers  dear; 

She  who  from  the  dragon's  jaws  came  forth  with  dainty  flesh  unharmed, 
And  beheld  the  monster  by  the  lifted  cross,  as  one  encharmed; 

Who,  with  bold  foot  on  his  head,  stood  till  the  grov'ling  fiend  confessed 
Christ  the  Man  as  God  triumphant — Maid  as  Mother  ever  blessed. 

Round  this  shrine  stand  oaks  majestic;  roofless  walls  alone  remain, 
Crumbling  as  a  broken  promise — dark  as  soul  with  falsehood's  stain. 

Empty  hall  and  staring  windows — friend  nor  foe  its  shape  would  own; 
Eyeless  skull  which  delving  Years  have  from  Time's  charnel  house  upthrown. 

Tossed  unloved  upon  the  wayside,  kicked  by  every  passing  tread, 
Spat  upon  by  all  the  winters — thus  has  Life  inscribed  it  dead. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN  MIGUEL  ARCANGEL. 

T  TALF-WAY  'twixt  San  Luis  Mission  and  Antonio  in  the  hills, 

*  *     Stands  a  shrine  whose  ruin  e'en  the  stranger's  heart  with  sorrow  fills. 

Here  the  rancho  Paso  Robles — Pass  of  Oaks,  in  legend  famed, 
Reaches  towards  Nacimiento — river  thus  by  padres  named, 

The  Nativity  to  honor — thus  their  faith  marked  every  place; 
This  to  lawless  stream  Salinas,  makes  a  shallow  winding  trace. 

Here  for  miles  the  oaks  majestic  lift  their  heads  above  the  plains, 
Gath'ring  sunlight  for  their  young  leaves,  and  their  life  from  winter's  rains. 

Dotting  plains  which,  green  or  russet,  spread  as  parks  beneath  their  feet; 
With  cool  oases  of  shadow,  travelers'  weary  steps  to  greet 

Look  they  on  the  hills  as  calmly  as  when  Indians  hunted  there, 
Fearing  to  destroy  a  god  in  mountain's  guardian,  grizzly  bear. 

O  ye  oaks !     Ye  guardian  genii  of  the  broad  leagues  up  and  down ! 
Tell  us  of  the  scenes  ye  witnessed  or  with  smile  or  angry  frown. 

In  your  tops  we  hear  ye  murmur ;  is  it  thus  brave  deeds  are  sung  ? 
For  the  alien  suppliants  deign  to  speak  in  coarser  human  tongue. 

Answers  not  your  whispered  cadence;  is  it  worship  blent  with  sighs? 
Droop  ye  lower  o'er  the  ruin  lifted  dark  against  the  skies. 


76  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

On  these  banks  of  the  Salinas  whose  bold  winter  torrents  flow, 

And  whose  summer-slackened  waters  sink  through  quicksands  white  as  snow; 

Where  Lucia's  mountains  shelter,  stands  the  church  of  San  Miguel, 
Dedicate  to  high  Arcangel — he  whose  sword  burst  doors  of  hell. 

Backward  braced  against  the  mountain,  faces  it  to  morning  light; 
Spreads  its  oak-swept  lawn  to  river;  ne'er  rose  sun  on  fairer  sight, 

Than  this  place  when  gardens  'broidered  Mission  lands  with  varied  green, 
And  the  mountains,  cattle-dotted,  hemmed  the  peaceful,  rural  scene, 

With  the  huts  'neath  tiles  or  thatches,  reaching  to  the  water's  brim, 
And  the  Indians,  gathered  by  them,  waiting  for  the  matin  hymn; 

On  the  stream's  far  marge  pale  willows  quiv'ring  at  the  kiss  of  dawn, 
While  beyond,  the  mountains  bright'ning  'neath  the  first  smile  of  the  morn. 

Now  the  sun  would  gladly  hide  his  face  from  his  appointed  hour, 
Grieving  for  the  sight  he  looks  on — wreck  of  time  and  godless  power. 

Long  rows  of  the  native  dwellings  still  the  pointed  roofs  define, 
And  the  lines  of  broken  shadows  every  falling  shape  combine. 

Yon  the  house  for  Indian  maidens,  where  they  learned  domestic  rule, 
And  the  skill  of  wheel  and  distaff,  in  the  matrons'  homely  school; 

Here  the  families,  instructed  in  the  marriage  sacrament 

And  the  sanctity  of  home  life,  dwelt  in  strange,  half-learned  content. 

Oft  their  natures  wild  revolted  at  the  lawless  roaming  lost, 
Deeming  toil  and  homely  living,  for  their  freedom  heavy  cost. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  ft 

Yet  came  thousands  with  their  new-found  souls  made  glad  in  heavenly  birth, 
As  if  God  would  have  election  from  all  nations  of  the  earth. 

In  yon  white  facade  of  arches,  wreck  of  padres'  dwelling  see, 
And  within,  find  strangers'  halls  which  knew  their  hospitality. 

One  lone  bell,  on  rude  cross  hanging,  stands  beside  the  low  church  door, 
Still  its  voice  infrequent  calls,  "Our  Mother  blessings  hath  in  store." 

Well  drawn  columns  on  the  wall  and  frescoes  of  an  abler  hand, 

Carven  pulpit,  choir  and  chancel,  show  that  love  learned  skill's  command. 

Long  toiled  hands  of  Christian  layman,  these  new  walls  to  decorate, 
Gone  to  dust  the  skillful  fingers — years  their  good  work  desecrate. 

Dim  old  canvases  still  hanging,  tell  the  shame  of  Judah's  plain, 
Where  along  the  Via  Cruets,  Christus  trod  the  earth  in  pain. 

Stands  amid  old  altar  columns,  saint  with  foot  on  skull  defiled; 

Thus  the  faith  o'er  death  has  triumphed,  and  the  grave  of  woe  beguiled. 

Mary  holds  the  Child  ordained  to  conquer  marshaled  host  of  sin; 
Looks  on  them  St.  Michael — he  who  saw  the  strife  in  heaven  begin; 

Patron  he,  with  sword  and  helmet,  on  the  dragon  crushed,  looks  down; 
Gone  the  wrath  that  smote  the  rebel;  victor's  face  without  a  frown. 

He  who  sat  in  heavenly  councils;  he  by  Lucifer  most  feared; 
He  in  holy  wars  invoke'd;  he  "by  all  the  faiths  revered;" 

He  who  knelt  to  the  Madonna,  when  her  time  on  earth  was  done, 
Star-encircled  palm  presenting,  token  from  her  waiting  Son; 


7S  A    CALIFORNI4    PILGRIMAGE. 

He  the  grandest,  brightest  of  the  flaming  spirits  round  God's  throne, 
Stands  in  graceful  effigy  high  o'er  this  altar  weird  and  lone; 

Upward  looks,  with  face  effulgent,  as  if  asking,  "  Is  it  done  ?  " 
Love  and  valor,  princely  loyal,  say,  "  Lo!  thine  the  victory  won." 

Dreary  shrine  by  the  Salinas !  e'en  thy  patron's  high  estate 
Proves  all  helpless  to  thce,  bound  by  will  of  a  remorseless  fate. 

And  they  say  heaven  spoke  its  anger  when  this  Mission  to  the  power 
That  robbed  all  its  sheep-clad  hillsides,  was  thrust  o'er  in  evil  hour, 

For  a  tumult  rent  the  sky,  like  clashing  weapons'  brazen  tone; 
Booming  like  near  crashing  thunder — thunder  to  this  clime  unknown; 

And  a  great  shape,  with  a  fiery  forked  tongue,  and  trail  of  flame, 
Shot  around  and  round  the  church  cross,  then  e'en  to  the  river  came; 

And  behold!  the  morning  sunlight  blistered  on  a  hideous  scene; 
Where  the  padres'  nurtured  garden  spread  its  wealth  of  shaded  green, 

Wound  a  blackened  trail  all  burnt  and  twisted  in  a  knotted  line, 
As  'twere  track  from  tortuous  writhings  of  some  fiery  fiend  supine. 

But  the  church  cross  stood  unharmed  and  traced  its  sign  against  the  sky — 
Sign  that  though  man's  works  were  smitten,  truth  it  symboled  ne'er  should  die. 

Hold  this  truth,  O  fading  shrine!  'tis  all  that's  left  to  light  thy  day; 
Tis  the  soul  that  may  illume  e'en  wasted  lines  of  dying  clay. 

Awful  silence  broods  around  thee,  and  the  noonday  hazes  thrill 
With  a  pulse  which  seems  a  mem'ry  of  the  life  that  now  is  still. 

Fare-thee-well !  such  desolation  seems  of  Time's  own  death  a  part; 
Leave  we  thee  to  dreams  and  shadows;  turn  we  to  the  world's  great  heart. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  79 


SAN  ANTONIO  DE  PADUA. 

A17HEN  from  Carmel  passing,  Serra  searched  the  land  with  godly  fear, 
Spake  Saint  Anthony  at  midnight,  "I  will  rest  by  Mt.  Lucia." 

And  across  his  sleep-pressed  eyelids  swept  a  vision  to  his  soul — 
Picture  of  a  good  campiua  waiting  monarch  man's  control; 

From  the  ground  in  haste  uprose  he;  prayed  till  dawn  on  neighb'ring  height, 
When  beneath  his  hands  uplifted,  spread  his  vision  of  the  night; 

Rolling,  fertile,  wide  cafiada  with  its  oaks  a  leafy  crown, 

Sheltered  by  the  purple  mountains,  where  the  young  fawns  ventured  down. 

Crossed  himself  the  pious  Serra;  spake  he,  "Brothers,  rest  ye  here, 
There  build  shrine  to  San  Antonio — this  the  Mount  of  Saint  Lucia." 

Swung  the  bells  by  Serra's  own  hand,  pealed  they  till  the  oak  boughs  bent; 
Peered  forth  one  lone  savage  wTond'ring  what  such  sounds,  uncanny,  meant. 

Stayed  two  good  Knights  of  the  True  Cross  in  this  lonely  wilderness. 
To  repeat  their  Master's  story,  mighty  in  its  power  to  bless; 

Built  they  bravely;  the  Canada  laid  its  treasures  at  their  feet; 

Named  they  mountain  creek  Antonio,  which  came  forth  their  steps  to  greet. 

Many  years  the  good  work  prospered — this  of  early  shrines  was  third; 

Of  its  vintage  and  its  rich  grains,  through  the  young  land  praise  was  heard. 


So,  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.. 

Where  the  vineyards  grew  luxurious  now  pass  cattle  idly  by; 
All  the  aqueducts  are  broken;  stone-built  reservoirs  are  dry. 

Gone  the  shape  of  Indian  houses;  lost  \hspalizadds  place; 
Of  their  mills  and  workshops  busy,  ju^t  remains  defining  trace. 

Here  the  reverend  Gutie'rrez,  with  good  works  the  Master  praised, 
Till  thrust  forth  to  famine  by  his  servants  to  brief  power  raised; 

Died  he  in  his  age  and  sorrow,  served  by  neophytes  alone, 

Called  they  piteously  on  Serra,  whose  face  their  young  lives  had  known; 

And  the  faithful  doubt  not  that  his  soul  passed  straight  to  bright  confines, 
Where  Junipero  receives  the  martyrs  from  his  Mission  shrines. 

Gone  the  single-minded  toilers;  of  their  converts  yet  remains, 
Here  and  there,  a  dark-hued  wand'rer,  stranger  on  his  fathers'  plains. 

One  old  Indian,  in  a  canon,  life  at  six  score  ten  still  holds; 

Like  dark  mummy  cloths  about  him,  years  have  wrapped  their  wrinkled  f^lds. 

Still  the  padres'  cloistered  dwelling  looks  adown  the  garden  path, 
Where  once  sacred  palm  trees  towered,  flowers  bloom  as  aftermath. 

Grand  old  priest  of  Aztec  nation — storied  features  rare  to  see, 
Offered  to  the  Pilgrim  strangers,  Christian  hospitality. 

Like  some  tropic  tree  transplanted  dwelt  he  here  in  lonely  pride, 
Breathing  but  the  padres'  language ;  genius  of  the  life  that  died. 

Gracious  showed  he  churchly  treasures,  which  in  varied  uses  stand; 
Silver  vessels  and  the  vellum  writ  by  Padre  Serra's  hand; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  Si 

And  the  Pilgrims  turned  the  old  leaves,  records  of  baptismal  rites, 
Marriage  and  all  sacraments  which  tell  the  faith  of  neophytes ; 

Thick  leaves  of  the  yellow  parchment  bound  with  supple  skins  sun-dried, 
With  old  clasps  of  blackened  silver,  brought  from  Spain  with  churchly  pride. 

Stands  a  silver  missal-holder  where  the  sacred  volumes  rest, 

Dark  without  with  many  kisses,  rich  within  with  words  most  blessed; 

Music  script  for  Indian  reading,  quaint  old-  characters  defined ; 
Benedictus  and  the  Credo  by  the  padres  interlined. 

Curious  chair  once  used  by  Serra;  old  confessional  remains; 

Pulpit  hewn  from  mountain  cedar;  rafters  dark  with  thousand  stains. 

Fathers  lie  in  quiet  sleeping  'neath  the  floor  of  sacred  name; 
Watch  the  saints  above  their  ashes  round  the  altar's  blessed  flame. 

Calm  looks  down  the  patron  preacher,  Anthony  of  silver  tongue, 

On  whose  words,  from  prince  to  peasant,  Europe's  crowds  enraptured  hung; 

Who  the  Christ-Child  so  adored  that,  while  with  fastings  worn  he  prayed, 
To  his  arms  our  Lord  descended,  as  a  Babe  within  them  laid. 

Mary  of  "Most  Pure  Conception"  stands  above  on  crescent  moon, 
Foot  the  fatal  serpent  crushing,  tells  the  strife  begun  too  soon. 

Stand  around  the  saints  receive'd  from  La  Soledad  long  dead; 
In  the  sacristy  adjoining  Dolorosa  hides  her  head. 

But  the  noblest  thing  appearing  in  the  dim  and  churchly  light 
Is  a  rare  old  canvas  telling  of  the  woes  of  Calvary's  night; 


82  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Jesus,  from  the  cross  descended,  lies  upon  His  Mother's  knee; 
O'er  her  head  the  grief-smit  angels  kiss  the  blood  marks  on  the  tree. 

Wondrous  face  of  Christ,  in  which  the  love  divine  gleams  from  within, 
Through  the  throes  of  flesh  and  spirit — anguish  for  a  great  world's  sin. 

And  the  Mother !  who  the  sorrow  knows  upon  that  brow  so  traced, 
That  from  off  the  dark'ning  canvas,  years  have  not  its  lines  effaced. 

Near  the  picture  stands  an  altar  to  this  Mother  sorrow-fair; 

Rose  leaves  faded  and  as  withered  as  her  hopes  lie  scattered  there. 

Roses  die  and  hopes  must  perish,  but  the  resurrection  waits; 
Spring  renews  its  tender  blossoms;  hopes  re-bloom  at  heaven's  gates. 


T 


HROUGH  these  walls  at  mass  infrequent,  weirdly  throbs  the  Kyrie; 
From  the  few  and  scattered  kneelers  softly  slip  our  steps  away. 


Backward  looking  from  the  portal  shaded  by  pomegranate  tree, 
Take  we  thence  a  tender  picture  laid  in  mem'ry's  treasury; 

Sunlight  on  the  altar  streaming,  from  the  small  high  windows  shed, 
Gilds  the  crucifix  with  glory — Mercy's  pledge  to  faithful  dead; 

Priest  whose  chasuble  recalls  the  cross  by  our  great  High  Priest  borne, 
Maniple  and  stole — the  bands  at  pillar  of  the  scourging  worn; 

And  the  faith  which  lit  this  old  man's  face  at  mention  of  God's  name, 
Mounted  to  an  awe  majestic  when  beneath  the  typic  flame, 

Bowed  he  at  the  pyx  uncovered,  rev'rent  lips  to  altar  laid; 
When,  the  Sacred  Host  adoring,  consecrating  words  he  said, 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Shone  his  face  like  one  transfigured  by  the  presence  of  his  God; 
Thus  looked  Moses  when  from  Horeb  came  he  with  the  foot  unshod. 

Forty  years  this  sanctuary  saw  him  mourn  its  slow  decay; 

E'en  now,  by  its  lifted  stone  flags,  said  they  o'er  him,  "Clay  to  clay.'1 

Brief  the  Miserere  Nobis  when  he  smote  upon  his  breast; 
Long  the  angels'  Alleluia  which  awaits  him  'mong  the  blest. 

Requiescat!  pace!  pace!  through  the  dirge  a  joyous  tone; 
Alien  earth,  but  native  heaven !  now  his  faith  shall  know  its  own. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


NUESTRA  SENORA  DE  LA  SOLEDAD. 


\1  7 HERE  the  plains  of  the  Salinas  lie  beside  that  treach'rous  stream, 
^  "       Whose  bright  quicksands  swell  too  often  with  a  death-alluring  gleam, 

Ten  leagues  northward  from  the  Mission  of  Antonio  by  Lucia, 

Once  bloomed  gardens  fed  by  streams,  from  hills  diverted,  full  and  clear. 

In  the  neighboring  heights  the  padres  found  the  springs  since  known  to  fame; 
Such  their  life  restoring  virtue,  El  Paraiso  gave  they  name; 

Found  youth's  fountain  for  the  body,  and  such  feast  for  soul  and  eyes 
That  within  the  valley  hazes  seemed  a  dream  of  Paradise. 

Where  acequias  gleamed1  like  serpents  shining  prone  upon  the  plains, 
Now  of  reservoirs  and  gardens  not  an  outlined  trace  remains. 

Wide  and  lone  the  reach  of  valley,  wind-swept  from  the  sea  trades  rude, 
Where  stood  shrine  to  Mary  as  "Our  Lady  of  the  Solitude." 

Grand  the  sights  she  looked  on  when  the  Mounts  Lucia  and  Gavilan 
Faced  each  other  o'er  the  green  vale  where  the  winter  torrents  ran. 

Fierce  th'  Arroyo  Seco  rushes  foaming  o'er  the  verdant  plain, 
Mad  to  meet  the  lashed  Salinas,  roaring  as  a  beast  in  pain ; 

Fair  the  fields  when  Spring-time  drops  bright  flow'r-gems  from  her  jeweled  hand, 
Crusting  marge  of  spent  streams  shrunk  to  silver  girdles  round  the  land. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  8s 

Drear  when  mounts  the  summer  sun,  the  slayer  of  the  young  Spring's  breath; 
Lies  the  plain  like  stricken  giant,  panting,  gasping,  smit  with  death. 

From  it  rises  glowing  aura,  shrouding  hills  in  autumn  haze, 
As  exhale'd  spirit  lingers  round  its  clay  in  subtle  blaze. 

Where  the  white  sands  of  the  stream  beds  meet  and  wait  the  winter's  might, 
'Neath  the  shadow  of  the  mountain  stands  a  weird,  heart-sick'ning  sight; 

Piled  in  utter  shapelessness  lie  the  good  walls  once  consecrate, 
Shifting  as  the  river's  quicksands  proved  life  to  this  Mission's  state. 

Moles  and  gophers  'neath  the  doorway  undisturbed  their  furrows  wind; 
Caw  the  dismal  crows  above  it;  owls  within,  the  young  bats  find. 

Squalor  lies  at  every  portal ;  Desolation  spreads  her  tent, 

As  if  with  Despair  her  handmaid,  she  would  dwell  there,  aye  content. 

Walnut  trees  alone  the  story  tell  that  better  life  was  there, 

Few  and  scattered  mourners  are  they  o'er  the  shrine  they  knew  as  fair; 

Lone  graves  on  the  wide  plain  tell  where  thousands  found  of  pain  surcease ; 
Wild  doves  on  the  crosses  cooing  tone  a  requiem  of  peace. 

Here  Serf  a,  faithful  friar,  fell  at  sacrificial  mass — 

Aged,  famished,  robbed  by  strangers — martyrs  thus  to  heaven  pass. 

Round  this  shrine  no  chant  shall  echo,  life  can  ne'er  the  curse  dispel; 
Summer  winds  with  sharp  intoning  its  funereal  horrors  tell. 

Fled  Our  Lady  to  the  mountains,  and  the  saints  who  round  her  stood, 
When  the  time  of  woe  was  on  them,  from  the  House  of  Solitude; 


S6  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

There  serve  they  Antonio's  altar,  but  in  dim  room  ever  drear, 
She  abides  in  Paduan  Mission  'neath  the  shadows  of  Lucia. 

Mater  Dolorosa  was  she,  when  the  patron  saint  before ; 
Now  in  unshrined  exile  biding  Dolorosa  evermore. 


OTHOU  mournful  Mother!  standing,  to  the  cross  thine  eyes  uplift, 
Where  thy  stricken  Son  was  hanging  when  Doubt's  sword  thy  own  heart 
rift! 

Vain  man's  cry  of  Stabat  Mater,  wailing  down  the  mournful  years, 
To  rehearse  thy  living  anguish  and  the  meaning  of  thy  tears; 

If  on  earth  one  knew  thy  woe,  some  mother  like  thyself  'twould  be, 
Wrung  with  pangs  for  which  'twere  vain  to  seek  words'  idle  pageantry. 

Such  with  pain  transfixed  stand  as  thou  beside  the  struggling  clay, 
Dumb  and  lifting  helpless  hands  in  heritage  of  Eden's  day. 

And  to  these  thou  showest  near  the  might  of  thy  stupendous  pain — 
Woe  supremest  save  the  cry  which  rent  the  temple's  veil  in  twain. 

Such  alone  the  fiery  baptism  which  may  give  thy  grief  to  know, 
Thou  who  art  the  ideal  Mother  sacred  to  earth's  holiest  woe. 

Lovely  type  of  purest  sorrow !  Solitude  thy  fitting  shrine, 
For  the  giddy  world  has  nothing  for  an  anguish  such  as  thine. 

And  thy  face  with  woe  transfigured  tells  from  altars  grand  or  rude, 
How  a  mother's  pain  may  be  a  soul's  sublime  beatitude. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  87 


SAN   CARLOS  DEL   CARMELO. 


]\A  ONTEREY  of  fame  historic,  turn  we  to  thy  changing  skies, 

*  '  *     Where  the  white  fogs  of  the  morning  blaze  in  sunset's  scarlet  dyes; 

Monterey,  thou  place  of  slumbers  deeper  than  that  sleeper  knew 
Who  upon  the  storied  Catskill  slept  his  score  of  winters  through. 

Narcotized  by  mem'ries  art  thou,  than  the  maid  enchant,  more  dumb ! 
To  awake  thee  will  the  prince,  whose  name  is  Progress,  never  come? 

Nature's  largess  gave  thee  beauty ;  sands  so  white  for  thy  blue  bay 

That  like  pearls  from  mermaid's  necklace,  o'er  it  seems  the  loosened  spray; 

Mountain  doors  that  close  around  thee — some  that  stand  but  just  ajar — 
Shelt'ring  from  the  ocean  winds  which  sweep  Salinas  plains  afar; 

On  thy  cliffs  the  native  cypress  drinks  the  fog  as  man  drinks  wine; 
Fringes  miles  of  stately  forest — live-oak  and  the  slim-leaved  pine. 

On  thy  hill  the  old  fort  crumbles;  many  tales  of  treachery 

Its  dumb  walls  could  tell  of  times  when  government  was  anarchy. 

Through  thy  streets  quaint  figures  wander — driftings  of  a  century's  tide, 
Which,  receding,  left  them  stranded — lie  their  wrecks 'on  every  side. 

Here  and  there  a  house  historic,  to  thy  paths  juts  all  awry, 
Grim  behind  its  garden  walls  as  if  the  new  life  to  defy. 


SS  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Yonder  stands  "El  Monte's"  palace,  and  the  maskers  grandly  pass 
Through  its  groves  in  shining  raiment,  courting  Pleasure — coyest  lass. 

Stand'st  thou  by  it,  squalid  village,  stooping  with  a  century's  weight, 
Like  an  outcast,  blear  and  haggard,  crouching  at  the  young  lord's  gate. 

Thou  that  bearest  name  of  him  whose  sire's  high  prowess  won  permit 
To  be  near  great  Ferdinand  and  in  the  queenly  presence  sit. 


O TANDS  a  cross  upon  the  roadside  where  Fray  Serra  first  set  foot, 
^     'Neath  an  oak  of  evergreen  which  holds  the  bank  with  rugged  root. 

Of  its  boughs  a  belfry  made  he,  when  his  cry,  "O,  Gentiles  come," 
Smote  the  echo  with  such  strange  sounds  that  almost  its  voice  was  dumb. 

Loud  their  O  Regina  Cceli  rolled  along  the  unknown  shore ; 
Muskets  had  they  for  stringed  viols,  and  for  organ,  cannon's  roar. 

And  the  ocean  surge  its  "Amen"  sung  with  musical  soft  spray; 
Winds  rejoiced  to  bear  the  story  from  the  shores  of  Monterey; 

Bore  they  it  along  the  sand  dunes  with  June's  burning  tints  ablaze; 
Forests  of  the  yellow  lupine  bent  to  whisper  the  new  praise; 

Bore  it  o'er  the  billowy  hills  which  with  their  wind-piled  brothers  vied 
In  the  brightness  of  mosaic  flaming  from  each  verdant  side, 

To  the  canon's  deep  recesses  where  the  Indians  hid  in  fear — 

Who  shall  know  what  savage  forecast  told  them  that  their  end  was  near! 

Saw  they  farther  than  the  padres?  felt,  but  dimly  understood, 

That  the  white  man's  curse  for  them  lay  deeper  than  the  present  good? 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  S9 

No  dumb  creature  but  hath  instincts  for  its  own  protection  given; 
Smote  their  ears  the  priests'  Venite  as  fate's  bolts  in  their  lives  driven? 

But  pealed  forth  the  grand  Te  Deum^  chanted  in  a  faith  sublime, 
Which  looked  far  beyond  the  wrecking  of  man's  toil  on  reefs  of  time. 

Yet  it  seems  sometimes  the  moaning  of  the  hopes  that  later  died, 
Mingles  with  the  oak's  dry  rustle  and  the  sob  of  ebbing  tide. 


SHORT  remove  where  Carmel  river  loiters  towards  its  tiny  bay, 
Stands  St.  Charles'  neglected  shrine,  built  after  Serra  passed  away; 

Named  for  him  whose  brave  young  voice  had  called  The  Church  to  keep  her 

pledge, 
When  she  hung,  mad  with  ambition,  o'er  destruction's  giddy  edge. 

St.  Charles,  the  devout  Archbishop,  who,  when  loved  Milan  was  smit 
With  the  pestilence  appalling  by  whose  fingers  "Death"  was  writ, 

Went  bare-footed  with  his  clergy,  weeping  through  each  plague-swept  street, 
Halter  round  his  prelate's  scarlet,  calling  all  to  penance  meet. 

Who  self-offered  for  the  people,  prostrate  at  the  altar  lay, 
Sacrifice  for  their  dark  sins,  if  thus  the  dreaded  scourge  might  stay. 

Pause  upon  the  gentle  hillside,  view  San  Carlos  by  the  sea; 
'Gainst  pale  light  a  shape  Morisco  wrought  in  faded  tapestry. 

'Neath  Mt.  Carmel's  brooding  shadow,  peaceful  lies  the  storied  pile, 
And  the  white-barred  river  near  it  sings  a  requiem  all  the  while. 


SO  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Why  was  name,  to  Christian  precious,  found  within  this  lonely  place, 
Borne  by  stream  which  mirrored  only  swarthy  brow  or  deer's  shy  grace? 

Band  of  friars  Carmelite,  came  with  Viscaino  long  before, 
Salves  chanting  to  their  Lady  by  this  far  and  fabled  shore; 

And  their  name  on  stream  and  mountain  brightened  all  the  unblessed  place, 
As  the  mem'ry  of  a  sweet  smile  lightens  up  a  sombre  face. 

Now  remains  of  many  labors  by  the  loyal  sons  of  Spain, 
Not  a  tropic  leaf  reminding  of  the  Andalusian  plain. 

Where  were  roofs  of  tiles  or  thatches,  roughest  mounds  mark  every  side, 
And  where  once  the  busy  court-yard,  searching  winds  find  crevice  wide. 

Gone  all  trace  of  padres'  dwelling,  and  'midst  ruin  yet  remains 
But  the  church  front  in  its  beauty,  arabesqued  with  winter  stains; 

High  two  Moorish  belfry  towers  lift  the  sign  of  Calvary, 

Tell  the  deep-worn  steps  ascending  oft  their  sweet  bells  woke  the  sea, 

O'er  the  door  a  star  embrazured  tells  the  tale  of  Bethlehem, 
Far  more  eloquent  to  Indian  than  the  priestly  apothegm. 

See  from  'neath  the  low  carved  doorway  flowers  blossom  through  the  nave, 
O'er  debris  from  roof  and  pillars  heaped  upon  the  square  tiled  pave. 

Natural  blocks  from  mountain  quarries  mark  the  walls  with  beauty  still, 
And  the  sweep  of  arch  and  cornice  show  a  growth  of  native  skill; 

Graceful  baptistry  remaining  springs  its  roof  with  Gothic  line, 
Corners  joined  with  triple  columns  meet  o'er  infancy's  pure  shrine; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  9 

Where  were  altars,  wild  doves  twitter — o'er  them  drops  the  roof  away; 
Where  burnt  type  of  Real  Presence,  sunshine  streams  this  many  a  day. 

Softly  tread  the  sanctuary,  where  the  reverend  sleepers  lie, 
'Neath  the  spot  where  oft  they  lifted  sacrificial  Host  on  high. 

Gone  the  Dolorosa's  altar  and  the  saints  who  on  it  wait; 
Transept  of  a  sister  chapel  shelters  now  their  sad  estate. 

Guards  them  there  an  earnest  priest  who  deems  their  shrine  a  sacred  trust — 
He  whose  search  in  musty  volumes  found  what  place  held  Serra's  dust. 

Yearly  here  the  Indians  gather  on  San  Carlos'  holy  day; 

Sad  memorial  to  the  man  who  would  have  died  for  such  as  they. 

Squalid  remnant  of  a  nation,  hide  they  midst  their  fathers'  hills ; 
Wretched  tale  of  their  misfortunes  blackened  page  of  history  fills. 

Weirdly  echo  their  responses  for  the  saint  they  do  not  know, 
But  they  know  their  hopes  are  broken,  and  that  Serra  lies  below; 

And  they  tremble  when  they  tell  you  that  at  midnight  of  that  day 
Will  arise  their  buried  kindred  in  a  ghostly  dumb  array; 

Round  the  ruin  in  procession  with  their  torches  white  and  still, 

Passing  through  the  shadowy  doorway  from  their  graves  beneath  the  hill; 

And  that  Serra,  like  a  great  God,  though  his  burial  stone  moves  not, 
Will  lead  them  in  mass  majestic  on  the  drear  but  hallowed  spot; 

With  strange  aspergill  will  scatter  o'er  their  forms  a  phantom  spray, 
While  Crespf  will  swing  the  censer  through  air  unpulsed  by  its  sway; 


<?2  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

And  the  altar's  spectral  tapers  will  gleam  on  their  faces  white, 
And  the  Crucifix'  soft  splendor  fill  the  dark  nave  with  its  light; 

Hoarse  will  sob  the  surf  responsive,  moan  the  wind  in  minor  strain, 
Mingling  with  the  faint  far  echoes  of  celestial  choir's  refrain; 

Night  winds  will  not  stir  the  garments  of  the  kneelers  on  the  ground, 
To  the  voiceless  Pax  Vobiscum,  lips  will  answer  without  sound; 

And  will  cross  the  brows  unearthly,  hands  which  leave  no  shadow  there, 
A_s  the  forms  and  lights  phantasmal  melt  into  the  midnight  air. 

Such  the  shadow  thrown  upon  the  Campos  Santos  'neath  the  hill, 
Where  the  rulers  of  the  young  land  many  graves  unnoticed  fill. 

At  this  Mission  long  dwelt  Serra — padre  of  the  padres  he; 
Hence  o'er  hill  and  desert  went  he  through  his  apostolic  see. 

Thence  returning  worked  he  humbly  with  the  Indians  while  he  taught, 
Bearing  burdens  as  St.  Francis  when  at  Damian  he  wrought. 

For  the  hands  which  blessed  the  emblems  shrank  not  from  all  homely  toil, 
Teaching  side  by  side  to  natives  wealth  of  their  neglected  soil. 

Showed  he,  too,  by  dread  example — torches  to  his  flesh  applied, 

Beaten  breast  with  stones  and  scourges — woes  for  those  who  godless  died. 

Grand  his  spirit's  consecration — sweet  to  him  the  wilderness, 

If  to  dark  souls  he  might  carry  Calvary's  tale  with  might  to  bless. 

Told  he  mass  at  shrine  most  humble,  not  within  the  walls  we  see; 
'Neath  a  low,  thatched  roof  uncomely,  served  he  altar  ministry. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Like  King  David  heaven-chosen,  came  he  to  the  temple  door, 

Saw  he  blocks  hewn  from  the  mountain  ere  they  laid  him  'neath  its  floor. 

And  when  fell  upon  his  brow  a  shadow  from  the  farther  land, 
Thitherward  turned  he  all  gladly,  lifting  patient,  longing  hand. 

Seeing  naught  'midst  heaven's  glories  his  pure  spirit  more  besought 
Than  a  "grander  gift  of  prayer,"  for  poor  souls  for  whom  he  wrought. 

When  from  self-imposed  retreat  he  came  forth  to  the  sacrament, 
Rung  his  Salutaris  Hostia,  though  his  form  with  weakness  bent; 

Rose  his  Tantum  Sacramentum  in  a  tone  that  mocked  all  pain, 
While  the  voice  of  priests  and  kneelers  died  in  tears  at  the  refrain; 

Laid  he  his  tired  head  in  rapture  on  the  breast  of  mother  earth — • 
Dumb  bequeath  of  his  poor  body  to  the  heart  that  gave  it  birth. 

Chill  embrace  which  he  felt  not,  Faith's  glowing  robe  was  round  him  cast; 
Proved  he  true  to  poverty  and  to  St.  Francis  to  the  last ; 

Bore  the  waiting  ones  his  spirit,  and  their  anthem's  joyous  swell 
Mingled  with  the  notes  funereal  of  the  solemn  passing  bell. 

And  the  boom  of  dreary  cannon  told  above  the  moaning  sea 
How  the  earth  had  lost  a  soldier  and  The  Church  a  devotee. 

And  the  angel  voices  answered  that  The  Church  in  heaven  had  found 
One  whose  welcome  should  re-echo  through  the  welkin's  farthest  bound. 

And  on  earth  the  testimony  failed  not  when  at  length  he  slept; 

Came  great  blessings  on  the  Mission  e'en  while  round  his  bier  they  wept. 


93 


94  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Took  he  up  in  heaven  the  worship  which  he  dropped  in  pain  below, 
Swelled  the  glad  celestial  chorus,  "Lo!  the  end  of  earthly  woe!" 

And  they  laid  him  by  Crespi,  the  friend  whose  toils  were  sooner  o'er, 
At  the  feet  of  Dolorosa  and  beneath  the  chancel  floor. 

Lie  their  crypts  in  desolation — sun  and  storm  upon  them  beat ; 
Stood  the  Pilgrims  in  mute  rev'rence  staying  their  too  hasty  feet. 

And  they  wondered  if  the  angels  sometimes  chant  above  this  earth, 
As  around  th'  Assisan  chapel  sang  they  at  St.  Francis'  birth. 

Spake  one  sadly,  "Though  above  them  no  grand  mausoleum  rise, 
God  knows  every  place  most  humble  where  a  faithful  servant  lies; 

"Though  there  gleam  no  marble  tablet,  angels  watch  the  precious  dust, 
Unseen  fire  from  heavenly  altars  marks  the  place,  their  holy  trust." 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SANTA  CRUZ. 

a  bluff  which  overlooks  the  seaside  town  of  Santa  Cruz — 

Fairest  spot  of  wooded  coast-line  which  the  fathers'  care  could  choose, 

Stood,  as  crown  upon  the  valley,  Mission  to  the  Holy  Cross; 
Now  for  all  the  padres'  labor  have  we  but  the  tale  of  loss. 

Here  they  drank  of  inspiration,  looking  forth  on  shore  and  hill, 
Gathered  their  quick  artist  vision  tints  which  here  through  hazes  thrill; 

Looked  they  toward  the  parent  Mission,  where  in  sunset's  crimson  haze, 
Flames  Point  Cypress,  burning  city,  wrapping  Pinos  in  its  blaze; 

Or  at  morn  when  through  the  sea  fogs,  hooded  monks  those  bold  cliffs  seem, 
Then  as  fickle  courtiers  tossing  plume'd  crest  in  noonday  gleam; 

Poet-priests,  but  toilers  also,  for  the  sweeping  corridors, 

Where  now  stand  the  convent  buildings,  told  their  zeal  in  holy  cause. 

Throve  this  Mission  as  its  fellows,  and  as  they,  knew  other  life — 
Neophytes'  rebellion  and  the  press  of  Mejico's  hard  strife ; 

Lacked  it  not  the  martyr  record — here  by  Indian  hate  was  slain, 
Fray  Quintana  when  the  midnight  hid  the  brow  with  brand  of  Cain. 

And  we  know  that  much  good  work  was  here  done  in  the  Master's  name; 
Rev'rence  for  its  grand  processions  from  us  still  the  old  folks  claim. 


g6  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

For  when  day  of  crucifixion  came  with  round  of  every  year, 

"Holy  Cross,"  which  named  the  Mission,  had  a  special  worship  here; 

Weirdly  chanted  priests  beneath  it  the  "Reproaches"  of  that  Dead 
Who  to  holy  symbol  changed  the  gibbet  with  His  sacred  head. 

"O,  my  people!  why  my  sorrow  hanging  on  the  bitter  tree; 
Why  for  all  the  gain  I  wrought  ye,  gave  ye  but  such  pain  to  me; 

"Though  I  flayed  the  pride  of  Egypt,  scourged  ye  me  with  cruel  rod; 
Though  I  slew  her  first-born  for  thee,  fell  my  blood  on  Calvary's  sod; 

"For  the  fiery  pillars  standing  behind  ye  at  Egypt's  sea, 
Pillar  of  the  flagellation,  O,  my  children !  gave  ye  me ; 

"Led  I  ye  from  your  tormentors,  gave  ye  me  unto  my  foe; 

Though  I  gave  ye  mighty  sceptre,  crown  of  thorns  mocked  my  great  woe; 

"  Though  in  deserts  with  sweet  fountains  and  white  manna  ye  I  fed, 
Vinegar  unto  my  thirst  ye  gave  when  faintness  bowed  my  head." 

And  the  answering  "  Adoramus,  adoramus"  softly  rung, 

Till  the  fervor  of  the  worship  seized  each  heart  and  halting  tongue; 

Swelled  above  the  wooded  hills  and  rolled  along  the  chafing  sea, 
Till  half-savage  hearts  were  soothed  by  power  of  some  great  mystery. 

And  the  Pilgrims  seemed  to  hear  the  worship  roll  along  the  shore, 
While  old  Indians  told  the  story  as  their  fathers  told  before. 

So  its  life  moved  on  with  worship  and  with  labor  many  days, 

Till  the  never-failing  hour  which  in  the  dust  man's  brave  work  lays; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  97 

And  of  all  the  fathers'  labors  not  a  house  as  known  of  eld; 

Of  the  church  there  now  remains  a  crumbling  wall  by  staves  upheld; 

Vain  supports  too  late  thus  offered,  soon  shall  earth  reclaim  her  own; 

Idle  as  are  those  late  efforts  which  would  for  life's  waste  atone, 
i 

Near  it  on  the  cliff's  edge  hanging  cling  the  graves  to  sacred  ground, 
As  if  o'er  no  other  place  the  resurrection  trump  should  sound. 

In  memoriam  the  fathers,  at  the  Christmas-tide  still  deck, 
To  recall  the  manger-cavern,  th'  inside  of  this  falling  wreck. 

Here  with  evergreens  and  hollies  and  the  trees  of  spicy  fir, 
Build  they  up  a  shrine  to  Mary  and  the  Child  who  hallowed  her; 

And  upon  the  Babe  and  Mother,  look  from  out  the  festal  green, 
Mild-eyed  cattle  in  dumb  wonder  at  the  unaccustomed  scene; 

And  beyond  in  mimic  figure,  spread  the  plains  of  Bethlehem, 

White  sheep  on  their  green  spots  feeding  with  the  shepherds  watching  them; 

Semblance  rude  of  scenes  immortal,  wretched  body  to  a  soul, 
Soul  the  throb  of  love  memorial,  love  that  lives  while  ages  roll. 

On  the  eve  of  holy  Christmas,  when  the  masses  have  been  said, 
Come  the  singers  to  the  ruin  midnight  starlight  overhead. 

Ring  the  "Gloria  in  Excelsis"  and  the  "Peace  to  men"  until 
With  familiar  sounds  awakened  dusty  altar  niches  thrill; 

And  the  hosts  of  watching  spirits,  who  have  worshiped  here  before — 
Padres,  neophytes  and  laymen — join  the  chorus  as  of  yore; 


9s  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

And  the  anthem  swells  and  rises  till  the  heavens  catch  the  strain, 
As  of  old  the  skies  first  echoed  on  this  night  o'er  Judah's  plain. 

Here  the  faithful  and  the  aliens  come  to  worship  and  to  see, 
Hearts  forget  their  faith's  sharp  conflicts  in  one  hymn  of  heraldry 

This  alone  to  hold  the  mem'ry — thus  does  Time  our  best  works  lose — 
Of  the  fathers'  faith  and  patience  on  the  hill  at  Santa  Cruz. 

But  the  old  men  shake  their  heads  and  whisper  hoarsely  as  they  go, 
"Mind  ye  of  the  time  when  Satan  struck  the  Holy  Cross  that  blow?" 

Then  they  tell  that  when  this  Mission  by  the  earthquake's  power  was  smit, 
As  if  to  proclaim  to  man  that  in  the  book  its  days  were  writ, 

From  above  its  altar  rose  the  Holy  Cross  made  consecrate 
By  the  Host  beneath  it  lifted,  in  the  masses  celebrate; 

Slowly  rose  and  grew  in  splendor  till  its  substance  seemed  as  light, 
Rose  through  roof  and  arch  unhindered — shook  the  faithful  at  the  sight; 

Rose  it  toward  the  upper  ether  by  hands  unseen  borne  aloft, 
Till  it  blazed  a  sight  of  glory  through  the  southern  midnight  soft; 

Fell  a  far  and  thrilling  cadence  by  celestial  voices  sung, 
Till  the  dying  Duke  Lignum  as  a  Duke  Lumen  rung; 

Brief  space  held  its  shape  receding  o'er  the  shrine  it  blessed  before, 
Then  beyond  the  stars  its  brightness,  far  the  loving  angels  bore; 

And  the  trembling  pious  hasting,  low  before  the  altar  found, 
Holy  Cross  of  wood  down-fallen,  lying  prone  upon  the  ground. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

T_T  AIL  thou  Cross  of  adoration!  was't  in  Eden  thou  had'st  birth, 

*  *     When  the  new-blessed  parted  waters  found  the  corners  of  the  earth ! 

Mystic  token  in  that  far  time  when  with  bashful  hand  the  Morn 
First  enwrapped  with  rosy  mantle  young  Atlantis,  ocean-born, 

Is  't  by  thee  that  man,  an  exile,  keeps  sad  mem'ry  of  that  land? 

Or  was  't  thou  God's  pledge  of  peace,  when  Eve  bewailed  her  lifted  hand? 

Thou  e'er  deemed  by  God-taught  sages,  emblem  of  some  strange  new  life, 
Since  man  first  on  record  tablets  wrought  his  faith  with  cunning  knife ; 

Borne  by  sculptured  gods  and  monarchs,  carved  on  temple,  shaft  and  urn; 
Thou  was't  old  when  Egypt  found  thee ;  Persia  young,  of  thee  would  learn. 

Bars  of  death  most  ignominious,  when  disgrace  was  heaped  on  crime; 
The  accretion  of  man's  venom  gathered  from  the  crypts  of  time. 

Man's  first  promise  to  the  future,  in  which  life  and  death  types  meet; 
Heritage  of  all  the  ages  in  thee  lay  at  Jesus'  feet. 

Hail  thou  sign  of  life  immortal !  symbol  of  a  death  profane ! 
Waited'st  thou  MESSIAH — CHRIST-MAN,  to  unite  thy  meanings  twain ! 


roo  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 


SAN   JUAN  BAUT1STA. 

A \7 HEN  the  fathers  sought  location  for  San  Juan  Bautista's  plan 
^       At  the  twilight  hour  they  halted  near  the  mountains  "Gavilan." 

Here  an  undulating  valley,  wealth  of  fertile  miles  outspread; 
To  th'  impatient  call  of  ocean,  happy  streams  unselfish  sped. 

Looking  forth  the  good  leagues  over,  with  their  faces  to  the  west, 

Saw  they  skies  which  might  have  spanned  the  fabled  "Islands  of  the  Blest;" 

Watched  they  mountains  blaze  and  fade  in  sunset  hazes  burning  slow, 
Till  they  seemed  as  hills  celestial  lit  by  heaven's  supernal  glow; 

Rose  the  padres'  chanted  cadence  till  the  night  with  Aves  thrilled, 
Echo  leaping  from  her  hills,  with  strange  response  the  valley  filled. 

"Gavilans,"  the  "sparrow-hawks,"  rose  from  the  steeps  in  rapid  flight, 
Wheeled  and  settled  on  that  spot  which  is  the  church's  present  site ; 

Listened  they  then  upward  floated  gentle  as  the  storied  dove, 

Read  the  padres,  "Graceless  savage  may  be  tamed  by  Christian  love.'' 

Cruciform  the  church  foundation,  e'en  the  massive  walls  were  shaped 
To  recall  those  scenes  historic,  o'er  which  heaven  in  gloom  was  draped. 

Close  beside  where  cross-formed  shadow  might  fall  on  the  blessed  ground, 
Thrice  a  thousand  of  the  faithful  consecrated  rest  have  found. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  101 

And  still  come  in  straggling  numbers  from  the  canons  wild  and  weird, 
Dark  descendants  of  those  sleepers  to  the  walls  their  fathers  reared. 

That  which  Time  has  dared  to  shatter  of  the  structure's  first  design, 
Now  replaced  and  fitly  shapen,  lifts  a  front  of  comely  line. 

All  within  renewed  and  cleanse'd  shows  the  care  of  loving  hands; 
Font  for  rite  of  holy  baptism,  at  the  entrance  fitly  stands; 

Font  from  solid  mountain  bowlder  slowly  chiseled  day  by  day, 
Urn-shaped  vase  and  bowl  receiving  refuse  of  the  blessed  spray. 

In  a  choir  restored  the  orphans,  from  the  convent  home  hard  by, 
Led  by  gentle  dark-robed  sister,  to  the  chanted  mass  reply. 

And  the  children's  Salutaris  floats  above  each  bowed  head, 
Soft  as  angels'  hymn  of  welcome  drifted  o'er  Mt.  Calvary's  Dead. 

And  'neath  dim  old  canvases  which  show  the  "Stations  of  the  Way," 
Softly  chanted  Stabat  Mater  tells  the  sorrows  of  that  day, 

When  from  cursed  flagellations  laid  upon  her  Son's  dear  flesh, 
Blood  stains  on  the  Via  Cruets  pierced  His  Mother's  heart  afresh. 

Mounts  the  glory  of  the  grand  words  to  a  transport  of  desire, 
Bursting  from  a  rapt  soul  forth,  in  th'  Inflammatus*  holy  fire, 

Still  are  here  old  altar  columns;  from  the  recessed  niches'  grace, 
Faithful  saints  of  many  nations,  bend  towards  Mary's  pictured  face; 

Here  stands  he  who  on  Messiah,  saw  the  heaven-named  sign  descend — 
Token  that  for  herald-prophet  desert  work  was  near  its  end; 


los  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

He  the  patron,  John  the  Baptist,  leaning  on  a  shepherd's  wand, 
Gazes  on  the  lamb  beside  him  with  a  look  both  awed  and  fond; 

Grander  light  his  face  transfigured  when,  to  thousands  desert-shod, 
Spake  he  o'er  our  Lord  baptized,  "Men,  behold  the  Lamb  of  God." 

Halo  aureate,  the  sunbeams,  from  high  bars  make  round  his  head; 
Through  the  dim  church  aisles  we  hear  of  buried  years  the  stealthy  tread 

Lives  the  rugged  form  before  us — camels'  hair  his  desert  dress — 
Rings  again  the  cry  prophetic  from  Judean  wilderness, 

And  we  see  the  broad-winged  white  dove  rest  on  His  devoted  head, 
Who  anon,  should  be  with  fastings,  to  the  great  temptation  led; 

Awed  with  scenes  of  such  grand  portent,  when  began  the  gospel  grace, 
Backward  stepping,  rev'rent  bowing,  pass  we  from  the  sacred  place. 

Far  the  colonnade  outstretches,  fair  and  bright  in  mounting  sun, 
As  life's  vista  to  youth's  vision,  ere  Hope's  light  for  aye  is  done. 

Of  the  rooms  within  the  cloister,  some  are  snatched  from  Time's  decay, 
While  on  some,  to  death  abandoned,  leaves  his  mark  each  record  Day. 

Gone  the  corridor  to  north  which  on  the  orchard  once  looked  down; 
Rises  long  facade  to  southward  on  the  plaza  of  the  town. 

Padres'  pear  trees  and  a  garden  thrive  'neath  young  priests'  foster  care, 
But  a  languishing /#$£?  dies  in  life-inspiring  air. 

Still  dwells  here  an  Indian  matron  strong  of  limb  and  brave  of  heart, 
Who  has  watched  with  dire  misgivings,  Mission  glories  all  depart. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  103 

"Then  the  rivers  ne'er  lacked  water,  easy  labor  gave  us  bread; 
Is  it  curse,  for  sins  unpardoned,  on  my  people?"  low  she  said. 

Sets  she  forth  the  grand  fiestas  when  pinole  flowed  for  all; 

Gleams  her  smile  as  winter  sunbeams  on  the  burnt,  charred  hill-side  fall ; 

Tells  how  Indians  and  the  Spaniards  on  the  plaza  held  rude  play, 
Takersia — round  hoop  thrown  and  caught  on  canes,  with  skillful  sway; 

And  Tousse,  where  cunning  actor  artfully  th'  attention  leads, 
Partner  finds  the  hand-hid  forfeit — stake,  a  string  of  shining  beads  -, 

Tells  of  the  grand  celebrations  of  the  feasts  of  joy  and  hope, 
When  in  lofty  ceremonial,  priests  in  chasuble  and  cope, 

And  with  all  the  high  insignia  which  their  holy  office  found, 

Led  the  faithful  in  procession  through  the  church's  measured  bound ; 

Flashed  the  silver  crucifix  in  sunlight  as  it  were  God's  smile; 

Burned  the  candles  round  the  saints  borne  from  their  niches  for  the  while, 

And  the  acolytes  swung  censers  till  the  incense  heavenward  soared, 
Sweet  as  prayers  of  saints  and  martyrs  in  the  golden  vials  stored ; 

Reverent  was  Corpus  Christi,  by  permitted  hands  uplift, 

'Neath  the  sign  made  holy  by  His  life  outpoured  in  precious  gift; 

And  they  bore  it  round  the  cross  which  rose  beneath  the  cloudless  sky, 
Knelt  the  crowds  in  adoration,  as  the  sacred  Host  passed  by. 

Tells  she  with  dark  glowing  features,  of  the  splendors  of  such  day, 
When  "From  out  the  holy  Presence  evil  spirits  slunk  away." 


104  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Tells  she  till  the  list'ning  Pilgrims  see  the  dreary  dark  room  fade, 
And  the  plaza  rise  before  them  with  the  pictures  she  has  made; 

Till  'neath  blazing  sun  they  see  dull  altar-lighted  tapers  flit; 

So  our  souls  are  dim  before  Him  though  from  His  own  spirit  lit; 

Till  through  years  reverberant  they  seem  to  hear  the  thrilling  sound, 
Of  the  Lauda  Sion  chanted  softly  o'er  the  holy  ground; 

Throbbing  through  the  south  air  tender,  till  the  birds  take  up  the  strain, 
And  to  unblessed  canons  bear  the  note  of  Christian  love's  refrain. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  705 


SANTA   CLARA. 

SANTA  CLARA !  valley  lovely  as  a  maiden  basking  fair, 
With  her  bright-hued  robes  about  her  and  disheveled  sun-lit  hair; 

Valley  reaching  to  the  southward  from  the  broad  majestic  bay, 
Whose  name  tells  the  world  the  story  of  Saint  Francis'  early  sway; 

This  the  spot  of  nature's  choosing  where  her  perfect  work  is  done, 
Turned  the  sand  to  gold  dust  by  yon  silent  alchemist,  the  sun; 

Where  the  fruits  more  fair  than  apples  of  the  far  Hesperides 
To  the  lifted  fingers  drop  from  arms  of  the  rejoicing  trees; 

Where  'midst  never-dying  roses,  Afric's  lilies  boldly  bloom, 
Sprays  exotic  twine  the  lattice  without  fear  of  winter  tomb; 

Where  the  soft  airs  drift  luxurious,  perfumed  from  a  thousand  sods, 
Till  the  drunken  senses  murmur,  "Tis  the  'Garden  of  the  Gods.'" 

This  the  site  to  Santa  Clara  chosen  by  her  devotees 

Ere  her  fields  of  tangled  wild  flowers  knew  the  kiss  of  myriad  bees. 

Here  St.  Francis'  soldiers  found  the  wilderness  of  oaks  their  home; 
Gardens  made  and  Indian  dwellings,  lifted  cross  and  stately  dome. 

Here  they  built  the  Alameda  which  should  give  its  pleasant  way, 
To  the  neighboring/^/^,  th'  unformed  town  of  San  Jose; 


ro6  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Planted  willows  right  and  left,  which  as  their  monument  still  stand; 
Young  and  old,  for  this  good  rambla,  bless  the  padres'  thoughtful  hand. 

Alameda!  fair  when  sunlight  follows  where  thy  branches  sway; 

Fair  when  moonbeams'  silvery  pencils  trace  thy  shade  in  plume-like  spray 

Walked  the  fathers  here  at  evening,  speaking  of  this  unknown  land, 
Shadow-like  the  Indians  followed  for  the  blessing  of  their  hand; 

Shadow-like  their  dusky  outlines  melted  in  th'  approaching  night, 
So  oblivion  soon  shall  cover  their  receding  steps  from  sight. 

'Neath  these  skies  of  tireless  azure,  'midst  this  air's  luxurious  balm, 
Toiled  the  fathers  at  their  good  works  through  the  nation's  storm  and  calm. 

Now  scarce  trace  of  life  Franciscan,  Jesuits  the  place  retain, 
And  a  strong  and  noble  college  raises  here  its  good  domain. 

Where  appeared  old  walls  adobe,  modern  life  with  every  grace 
Clothes  the  outline,  as  a  young  vine  hides  a  gnarled  trunk's  ugly  face. 

Through  the  garden's  trellised  porches,  cassocks  dark  pass  swiftly  by, 
Shadows  in  a  sun-bright  picture  drawn  against  a  fervent  sky. 

Ripples  o'er  the  solemn  palm  trees  school-room  hum  from  left  and  right, 
As  along  a  tropic  ocean  breaks  a  phosphorescent  light. 

Priestly  Jesuit  with  guarded  courtesy  receives  the  guests — 

Trained  host,  whose  tact  unfailing,  meets  the  strangers'  tedious  quests. 

By  the  church  alone  remaining  with  its  rafters  quaint  and  old, 
Roughly  carven,  rudely  frescoed,  tale  of  other  life  is  told; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  /<?; 

Stand  two  altars  which  recall  an  earlier  century's  designs, 

And  a  brotherhood  of  saints  who  stoop  from  old  or  new-made  shrines; 

From  above  them  Santa  Clara  looks  down  on  the  blessed  flame, 
Where  new  fanes  or  crumbling  altars  hold  the  symbol  aye  the  same! 

Crucifix  with  hallowed  blood-stains  stands  against  th'  adobe  chill; 
Pulpit  quaint,  no  longer  knows  'midst  new  life  its  old  terrors'  thrill 

Canvas  new  with  vivid  colors,  here  repeats  the  oft-told  tale 
Of  the  Nazarene  cross-laden,  with  the  bloodhounds  on  his  trail. 

Modern  windows  in  the  old  wall,  like  new  thoughts,  give  ample  light, 
Not  a  corner  where  a  legend  of  its  dead  past  hides  from  sight. 

Warm  with  modern  life  and  purpose,  here  the  present  claims  its  own, 
And  the  future's  gracious  promise  o'er  the  shrine  and  school  are  thrown; 

And  the  church's  open  portal  tells  the  altar  ever  there, 

Bids  the  weary  pause  and  find  their  soul's  rest  in  an  hour  of  prayer; 

And  the  Sanctus  from  the  deep  soul  of  the  organ  worship-smit, 
Falls  like  dew  upon  the  dry  hearts — till  the  lips,  with  earth-care  writ, 

Tremble  in  a  glad  Hosanna  to  the  One  who  loving  came, 
And  in  a  soft  Benedictus  breathe  their  blessing  on  His  name. 

And  the  silent  Pilgrims  list'ning  to  the  chant's  soft  praise  and  prayer 
Falling  on  the  scattered  kneelers,  telling  aves  here  and  there, 

Wondered  not  how  Mother  Church,  her  children  holds  in  loving  thrall; 
All  their  needs  and  sorrows  knows  she  and  a  comfort  finds  for  all. 


io8  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Santa  Clara !  happy  patron  of  the  town  and  valley  wide, 

Scarce  knows  earth  a  fairer  spot  than  where  thy  shrines  in  peace  abide. 

Meet  reward  such  shrine  for  life  'neath  scourge  Franciscan,  in  thee,  known 
First  to  soul  and  flesh  of  woman — rest  and  home  behind  her  thrown; 

Thou  the  young  enthusiast,  who  came  on  day  of  holy  palms, 
Met  by  Francis  in  procession  of  blessed  lights  and  chanted  psalms, 

To  the  altar,  casting  there  thy  beauteous  hair  and  robes  away, 
And  received  the  serge  and  girdle  coveted  for  many  a  day; 

Who  when  loving  friends  from  such  life  sought  to  tear  thy  tender  grace, 
Dragged  the  altar-cloth  with  young  hands,  clinging  to  the  sacred  place ; 

Who  years  later,  ill  and  pallid,  lay  before  thy  convent  gate, 
Prostrate  at  the  pyx  uncovered,  to  the  good  Lord  supplicate, 

Lay  until  the  fiery  Moslems  warring  to  thy  very  feet, 

Deeming  thee  protecting  angel,  turned  their  Arab  coursers  fleet 

Thou  who  far  surpassed  e'en  Francis  in  self-tortures  and  in  prayers; 
Happy  vale  that  owns  thee  patron,  O,thou  mother  of  "Poor  Clares." 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  ICQ 


MISSION  SAN  JOSE. 

leagues  northward  from  the  town  which  bears  the  patron's  name  to-day, 
'Mong  the  Portuguese  and  Spaniards  stands  the  "Mission  San  Jose." 

Here  the  Contra  Costa  Mountains  downward  into  foot-hills  slide, 
And  the  Alameda  Valley  spreads  its  level  acres  wide; 

Here  above  the  fertile  farm  lands,  suns  the  sea-fogs  chase  amain, 
And  the  trade-winds  blow  land-tempered  o'er  the  inland  seas  of  grain. 

In  a  spot  where  spurs  of  foot-hills  make  with  warm  enclircling  arms, 
Sheltered  cove  from  valley  currents,  as  a  reef  makes  coral  calms, 

Clustered  once  the  Mission  buildings,  clinging  to  the  gentle  slope, 
Dedicate  to  Joseph,  patron — he  who  watched  o'er  Judah's  Hope. 

Here  they  built  the  massive  turrets,  houses,  workshops  and  the  mill, 
All  that  helps  to  human  living — Indian  hands  their  only  skill; 

Here  they  watched  the  good  crops  ripen,  and  their  cattle  roaming  wide, 
From  the  silent  brooding  mountains  to  the  distant  salt  marsh  tide; 

When  from  out  the  nation's  conflicts  round  their  heads  the  death  note  pealed, 
Grapes  ungathered  on  the  hillside  purpled  all  the  russet  field ; 

Trees  they  nursed  bent  heavy-fruited,  dropped  to  mother  earth  her  own, 
O'er  the  miles  of  uncut  harvest,  in  the  sun  no  sickle  shone. 


no  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Time  and  fell  neglect  have  hastened  wreck  which  human  strife  began; 
What  remained,  the  earthquake's  fury,  fiercer  than  the  wrath  of  man, 

Shook,  e'en  to  its  strong  foundation — rending  walls  with  bruises  sore; 
Nature,  Time  and  Man  united  on  its  head  their  wrath  to  pour. 

Now  a  decent  modern  structure  tells  the  priest's  returning  hand, 
And  again  his  vineyards  ripen  where  two  aged  olives  stand; 

Now  one  old  adobe  only,  dark  and  cool  for  vintage  use, 
Offers  to  the  curious  stranger,  of  the  old  vines'  purple  juice; 

Round  it  hums  a  motley  hamlet — farmers  come  with  varied  speech, 
And  the  graveyard's  simple  tablets,  in  all  tongues  their  lessons  teach. 

Where  young  avenue  of  olives  stretches  up  the  sunny  slope, 
Builds  The  Church  a  modest  college  as  the  future's  surest  hope. 

Gone  the  padres  patriarchal,  but  the  modern  life  is  born; 

Dropped  the  trailing  robe  of  romance  for  the  garments  of  the  morn. 

Stays  one  quaint  amusing  custom  with  its  story  of  a  wraith, 
By  which  is  extort  some  pleasure  from  the  rigors  of  the  faith ; 

Here  each  year  the  wretched  Judas  comes  forth  from  the  nether  flames, 
Be  it  short  reprieve  or  penance,  unchanged  still  his  thoughts  and  aims. 

On  the  midnight  of  Good  Friday,  when  the  requiems  have  been  said, 
Stalks  he  forth  as  one  rejected  from  Christ's  preaching  to  the  dead; 

Takes  he  thus  a  breathing  respite  in  the  air  from  sulphur  free, 
Cooling  his  hot  lips  till  morning,  granted  this  much  liberty; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  m 

But  the  smell  of  earth  revives  the  ruling  passion  of  his  soul, 
And  it  clamors  for  indulgence  far  beyond  his  weak  control; 

And  his  thieving  fingers  stay  not  till  into  a  mound  he  heaves 

"All  the  tools  and  work  unfinished,  which  the  careless  craftsman  leaves; 

Farmers'  wagons  from  the  roadside;  casks  that  wait  the  Mission  wines; 
Whiplash  as  his  pennon  streaming  o'er  the  workmen's  modest  signs. 

While  the  rude  pile  rises  darkly,  and  his  unseen  footsteps  go, 

Burns  the  greed  which  all  consuming  caused  the  sin  that  wrought  his  woe; 

And  he  lives  again  the  horror  and  the  pangs  of  dread  remorse, 
Which  to  hasty  gallows  drove  him  ere  Christ  hung  upon  the  cross; 

And  the  morning  sun  beholds  him,  while  the  country  people  gloat, 
Hanging  to  a  tree  for  gibbet,  self-placed  rope  around  his  throat; 

Written  will  he  grasps  convulsive,  giving  to  each  one  his  own, 
As  the  thirty  silver  pieces  at  the  elders'  feet  were  thrown- 

While  go  on  the  morning  masses  all  the  youth  of  farm  and  town, 

Stuff  his  clothes  with  Chinese  crackers — bombs  for  treach'rous  heart  and  crown; 

When  at  length  the  prayers  are  ended,  and  the  fire  and  water  blessed, 
Tastes  he  then  the  flames  familiar  in  his  home  of  dire  unrest ; 

And  the  fire-crackers  snapping,  like  the  breath  of  hell  outstart, 

To  the  four  winds,  bombs  infuriate  bear  his  trait'rous  head  and  heart. 

Such  the  custom  Mejicano  and  the  tricks  the  young  folks  play, 
With  the  effigy  of  Judas,  here  on  Holy  Saturday; 


ti2  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

And  the  country  people  gather  to  the  church  and  to  the  fun, 
For  to-morrow  is  the  Easter,  and  the  Lenten  gloom  is  done; 

And  the  Pilgrims  gazed  and  wondered,  that  the  city's  life  so  near, 
Remnant  of  a  long  dead  century's  curious  pastime  should  appear. 

Spake  one  gravely,  "'Men  are  children'  not  yet  'of  a  larger  growth.'" 
Turned  they  for  the  Easter  beauties  to  the  great  mart  nothing  loath. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

MISSION   DOLORES. 

MISSION  DE  LOS  DOLORES  DE  NUESTRO  PADRE,  SAN  FRANCISCO  DE  Asis. 

\  \J  HEN  the  Captain  Portola  with  his  soldiers  and  the  Frays 
'  V       Sought  Viscaino's  goodly  harbor — so  the  churchly  story  says — 

Francis  by  a  power  permitted,  as  they  came  towards  Monterey, 
Threw  a  cloud  of  blindness  on  them  till  they  knew  not  the  blue  bay. 

So  they  deemed  it  unnamed  water  breaking  on  an  unknown  strand. 
And  the  holy  sign  beside  it  placed  with  consecrating  hand. 

This  the  "Cross  of  Portola,"  famed  for  a  miracle  of  light, 

When  to  Indian  gaze  it  shone  like  sun-bars  through  the  forest  night; 

And  its  splendor  grew  and  widened  till  its  glory  lit  the  sky; 
Knew  e'en  unbaptized  pagans  that  some  mighty  one  was  nigh. 

To  appease  this  presence  brought  they  gaudy  plumes  the  wild  bird  sheds, 
Shining  shells  of  abalone  and  the  rude-cut  arrow-heads. 

While  the  saint  thus  to  the  heathen  token  gave  of  future  good, 
Passed  his  brave  men  northward  through  a  fair  but  unblessed  solitude; 

Through  long  avenues  of  pines  and  level  parks  of  oak-crowned  land, 
O'er  dim  miles  of  cloudy  coast-lines  to  a  chill  and  fog-wreathed  strand; 

As  a  just  reward  appointed  to  the  meekness  which  shunned  fame, 
Showed  he  them  a  bay  majestic,  meet  to  bear  his  saintly  name. 


ii4  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Call  it  freak  of  Time's  weird  sarcasm;  call  it  mockery  of  Fate; 
Name  of  "Poverty's  Apostle,"  bears  proud  bay  with  golden  gate. 

Grandest  bay !  upon  whose  bosom  navies  of  the  world  might  rest, 
Gently  holdest  thou  a  mirror  to  the  white  gull's  snowy  breast, 

And  thy  deep  arterial  currents,  drawn  from  ocean's  throbbing  heart, 
Bear  as  light  the  iron  monster  or  the  white  skiff  to  thy  mart; 

Rainbows  quiver  'neath  thy  surface;  heaven  repeats  itself  below; 
As  a  spirit  to  a  substance,  softer  there  its  colors  glow. 

Leagues  to  northward,  leagues  to  southward,  wanders  thy  adventurous  strand. 
And  thy  sinuous  arms  extending  gather  wealth  from  all  the  land; 

Wide  thy  Golden  Gate  stands  open  to  all  nations  of  the  world; 
Free  between  its  stately  portals  all  flags  are  in  peace  unfurled. 

Beauteous  Gate,  when  loitering  sunset  covers  thee  with  burnished  gold! 
Mighty  Gate,  when  surging  ocean  thy  strong  cliffs  alone  withhold ! 

Treach'rous  Gate  deceiving  many  with  a  name  most  fair  to  see ! 
Blessed  Gate  where  millions  find  the  golden  boon  of  liberty ! 


Lone  Mountain's  height  ascending  stood  the  Spaniards  in  amaze, 
At  the  fair  campina  spreading  God's  good  picture  to  their  gaze; 

At  their  feet  the  rippled  sand-dunes — billowy  waves  far  up  the  shore, 
Piled  by  tireless  winds  which  drive  their  ocean  brothers  evermore; 

Toward  them  swept  the  boundless  ocean,  tawny  'neath  autumnal  glow, 
Calm  its  waves  as  when  Balboa  named  it  El  Pacifico; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  115 

Alcatraz  and  Yerba  Buena — sentry  isles  within  the  gate, 
Watchword  passed  to  picket  guard — the  Farallones  without  that  wait. 

Sweeping  bay's  oak-tufted  shore  lands  slipped  adown  to  meet  the  tide, 
And  receive  his  brief  caresses  e'er  to  other  loves  he  glide ; 

And  the  foot-hills,  elder  sisters,  reached  around  with  circling  arms, 
Heads  uplift  towards  parent  mountain,  standing  in  perpetual  calms. 

Tamal  Pais — the  Table  Hill — sent  vows  on  trained  winds  bold  and  true, 
To  the  Monte  del  Diablo,  blushing  through  a  veil  of  blue. 

Far  beyond,  the  inland  valleys  lay  like  other  seas  outcast, 

And  the  gleam  of  thread-like  rivers,  silver  chains  that  held  them  fast. 

In  the  spot  where  stood  in  worship  these  brave  Frays  and  Portola, 
Stands  a  cross  upon  Lone  Mountain,  greeting  sailors  from  afar; 

And  around  it  throngs  a  motley  multitude  from  all  climes  led, 
Borne  from  cities  of  the  living  to  the  city  of  the  dead. 

And  the  Spaniards,  for  Saint  Francis,  placed  a  cross  beside  the  bay; 
For  his  sorrows  named  the  Mission  later  founded  on  his  day. 

Near  the  Gate  they  built  Presidio,  name  and  usage  still  the  same; 
Mission  placed  'neath  shelt'ring  foot-hills,  still  Dolores  bears  it  name ; 

Mission  this  the  last  to  northward — all  beyond  no  more  are  seen; 
Scarce  an  Indian  tells  the  story  o'f  the  life  that  there  has  been. 

Rafael  and  fair  Sonoma  once  raised  consecrated  head; 

Now  no  brick  on  brick  is  standing — than  a  coffined  form  more  dead. 


n6  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Long  Palou,  the  friend  belove'd  of  the  Fray  Jum'pero, 

Spent  his  years  of  faithful  labor,  through  Dolores'  weal  or  woe ; 

Fray  Palou,  the  careful  scribe,  whose  tireless  pen  to  us  bequeaths 

Tale  of  faith  and  hardship  through  which  great  love  to  the  Master  breathes. 

Now  the  shrine  whose  lands  were  boundless  looks  forth  from  its  measured 

walls, 
And  th'  irrev'rent  voice  of  traffic  by  the  very  doorway  calls. 

Jostled  by  the  crowding  city,  'neath  the  hills  it  crouches  low, 
As  around  his  haunts  familiar  hovers  outcast  loath  to  go. 

Like  an  exile  late  recalled,  it  "restored"  looks  on  the  land, 
'Minding  passers  of  the  time  when  Indians  trod  the  wind-swept  sand. 

Round  it  cluster  walls  dismantled — records  of  an  alien  past; 
Crumbling  roofs  their  broken  shadows  on  the  city  pavement  cast 

Huddled  in  a  square  begrudged,  crowded  lie  the  sleepers  still, 
Soon  must  they  their  rest  relinquish  to  the  greedy  city's  will. 

Here  ten  thousand  heads  have  hidden  'neath  the  dust  earth's  crown  of  pain, 
O'er  them  throbs  the  Dona  Pacem  from  the  smitten  organ's  strain. 

These  small  grounds  are  well  historic ;  names  gleam  on  their  tablets  white, 
The  pueblo's  life  recalling  and  the  city's  early  might. 

Here  lie  Casey  and  his  confreres  who  made  "  Vigilantes'"  fame, 

When  slow  Justice,  turned  at  bay,  struck  in  the  sovereign  people's  name; 

Here  lies  Don  Luis  Arguello,  Comandante  first  whose  power 
Told  how  Mejico  defied  the  mother  Spain  in  evil  hour; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  //; 

Here  the  fair  Concepcion  oft  strayed,  with  her  young  face  turned  grave 
For  the  lover,  held  too  long  o'er  seas  that  ne'er  a  token  gave. 

Sweet  Concepcion  Arguello — "La  Beata"  fondly  named; 

Count  Von  Resanoff,  her  true  knight,  in  the  Russian  story  famed; 

Prayed  she  here  till  elfish  sea-fogs  wrought  their  chaplets  in  her  hair, 
Dark  locks  which  were  destined  never  other  bridal  wreaths  to  wear; 

Many  years  unknown  his  death  tale — traveled  slow  e'en  warriors'  deeds; 
Many  years  of  maiden  sorrow — nun's  pale  robes  her  widow's  weeds ; 

Nun  the  first  of  consecration  on  this  pleasure-loving  shore ; 
Dominic's  white  vesture  hid  her  and  her  sorrows  evermore. 

Thus  do  mem'ries  hold  the  old  life  to  the  new  around  these  graves, 
And  to  youth  the  old  bells  call  o'er  priestly  dead  'neath  chancel  paves. 

Brave  young  hands  haste  with  the  new  shrine  which  "shall  be  the  dead  life's 

tomb, 
And  the  old  church  'neath  the  Twin  Peaks  shrinks  with  forecast  of  its  doom; 

Even  now  the  engine's  whistle  mingles  with  its  matin  bell; 

Thus  th'  impatient  hand  of  Progress  rings  o'er  storied  shrines  the  knell. 

But  long  years  have  city  kneelers  bent  'neath  rafters  dark  and  old, 
Which  the  neophytes  had  painted  with  rude  pigments  clear  and  bold; 

Gazed  on  the  same  canvases  which  told  to  them,  with  meaning  faint, 
Story  of  the  Man  of  Sorrows — for  us  made  with  grief  acquaint; 

Story  of  that  way  historic  where  beneath  the  cross,  bent  down 

Blessed  One  who  soon  should  change  His  thorn-wreath  for  His  glory's  crown; 


ri8  •i"i*~^--A-   ^CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Bowed  they  at  the  same  old  altars,  where  the  time-tried  saints  yet  stand, 
Faces  grim  as  if  reflecting  sorrows  which  have  swept  the  land. 

Shows  the  present's  ruthless  sunlight  old  and  new  in  crude  combine, 
Faded  Mater  Dolorosa  looks  on  young  Maria's  shrine; 

Stands  the  patron  at  the  altar  with  that  haggard  face  we  know, 
Which  saw  highest  love  expressed  in  fellowship  with  human  woe; 

He  whose  effigies  by  thousands  o'er  all  Christendom  are  strewn, 
Rivaling  in  wealth  and  number  even  the  Madonna's  own; 

He  the  enthusiast  who  wandered  singing  o'er  the  Umbrian  hills, 
Hailing  "Brethren  in  the  Lord"  in  sun  and  moon,  earth,  air  and  rills; 

Who  before  the  altar  threw  his  rich  dress  at  his  father's  feet, 

Thence  a  beggar's  mean  cloak  wearing,  wedding  robe  for  such  vows  meet; 

Such  Saint  Francis'  grand  espousal,  to  his  young  heart's  chosen  bride — 
Poverty,  the  gaunt  and  haggard;  walked  she  ever  at  his  side. 

Bears  Dolores  name  memorial  for  his  pains  "seraphic,"  borne 
When  he,  lone,  on  Mt.  Alverna,  with  his  two  score  fastings  worn, 

Saw  through  hands  in  prayer  uplifted — thus  the  spirit  testified — 
Crimson  blood-stains  slowly  redden,  such  as  marked  the  Crucified; 

And  upon  his  side  a  spear-thrust  felt  as  with  a  sudden  cry, 

His  cold  trembling  lips  scarce  faltered — "O  my  Master,  what  am  I!" 

Thus  the  love  which  sorely  grieved  lest  it  should  lose  a  martyr's  pain, 
Had  grand  recompense  in  bearing  sacred  blood-marks  cf  the  Slain ; 


MAGE.- 

oft  Library 


A    CALIFORNIA 

And  his  life  of  Lenten  grief  which  broke  in  heaven's  Easter  morn, 
Left  a  trail  whose  light  far-reaching,  ushered  in  this  young  land's  dawn; 

And  to-day  the  city  echoes  answer  many  an  Easter  hymn, 
Grand  with  clarion  and  organ,  through  wide  arches  high  and  dim, 

With  a  note  caught  from  his  followers,  whose  long,  love-impose'd  task, 
Taught  their  wild  notes  to  repeat  the  glorious  anthems  of  the  Pasque. 

Through  grand  chancels'  perfumed  airs,  rare  buds  and  tropic  garlands  twine, 
Not  more  sweet  than  their  wild  lupines  bound  with  yerba  buena  vine ; 

And  the  churchly  structures  lifting  gilded  domes  against  the  sky, 
Are  the  brave  and  stalwart  children  of  the  gray  old  shape  hard  by; 

And  the  rich-robed  worshipers  who  bend  at  Easter-tide  to-day, 
'Neath  the  stained  glass  o'er  high  altars,  by  Saint  Francis'  chosen  bay, 

Are  the  train  of  those  poor  padres,  who  to  dunes  and  ocean  roar, 
Chanted  the  first  Paschal  service,  lone  upon  their  patron's  shore; 

And  the  Pilgrims  bending  with  the  kneelers  at  cathedral  fane, 
Seemed  to  hear  that  first  chant's  echo  with  its  ocean  dirge  refrain, 

Through  the  Resurrexifs  triumph — through  the  Crutifixuf  moan, 
As  a  mem'ry  through  life's  present  beats  its  constant  undertone. 

With  deep  thought  and  mute  thanksgiving  for  the  coming  of  that  band, 
Knelt  they  for  the  Easter  blessing,  'neath  the  raised  pontific  hand. 


N  long  converse  spake  the  Pilgrims  when  the  feast  of  joy  was  done, 

"Though  our  faith  be  strange  and  diverse,  let  our  meed  of  praise  be  one. 


120  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

"Great  the  work  these  men  accomplished  with  their  consecrated  might, 
Grudge  not  praise  to  those  who  earned  it  in  an  age  to  ours  as  night 

"Plowmen  they  who  broke  the  furrow;  sowers  bold  who  cast  the  seed; 
Reapers  we  who  glean  the  good  land  better  for  their  patient  heed. 

"Naked  taught  they  to  be  clothed;  to  the  idle  rightful  toil; 

To  the  searchers  for  the  pine-nuts,  wealth  of  their  own  grateful  soil; 

"To  the  forest's  lawless  rovers,  holy  marriage  rites  they  taught, 
And  by  sacrament  baptismal,  sanctity  of  childhood  sought. 

"What  though  Indians  in  their  service  understood  not  all  they  did! 
Who  of  Christian  faith  but  worships  mysteries  in  God's  life  hid ! 

"What  though  zeal  o'er-stepped  its  measure!  though  wrongs  came  oft  and 

again ! 
Is  it  not  enough  to  answer  that  these  toilers  were  but  men? 

"That  great  zeal  which  all  too  often  numbs  the  heart  of  sympathy, 
Sacrificing  to  a  great  cause  individuals'  rightful  plea — 

"That  great  zeal  which  makes  fanatics  whose  devotion  to  earth's  weal 
Lifts  the  world's  great  causes  with  their  tireless  shoulders  to  the  wheel." 

Spake  one  aged,  "Shows  not  life  that,  with  good  works,  wrongs  must  creep  in, 
Long  as  toilers'  brows  are  branded  with  the  'serpent  trail  of  sin'; 

"First  were  darkness  and  confusion  ere  light  blessed  creation  grand; 
What  from  man  should  be  expected  if  was  chaos  'neath  God's  hand?" 

Spake  a  doubter,  "And  the  helpless!  of  their  dark  fate  what  can  say? 
Cross  their  shadows  not  our  thresholds,  pass  their  footsteps  not  our  way; 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  121 

"And  the  God  who  calls  us  children — e'en  the  lowest  names  He  thus — 
When  He  walks  the  earth  at  even,  will  He  ask  their  souls  of  us? 

"Dwell  we  in  their  'customed  places — build  we  on  their  hill-tops  high; 
If  it  be  our  brother's  birthright,  what  to  Him  shall  we  reply? 

"Or  is't  God's  great  evolution  in  which  pass  low  types  away? 

Is't  with  man  as  with  dumb  creatures — lost  the  race  when  done  its  day? 

"While  we  speculate  they  fade  as  sure  as  night  before  the  dawn, 

E'en  their  shadows  shall  have  vanished  ere  this  young  land  pass  its  morn. 

"Be  't  by  laws  outwrought  so  blindly  when  kind  hands  unconscious  slay, 
Or  by  pushing  of  the  stronger — who  hath  wisdom  let  him  say." 

Spake  one  sadly,  "'Tis  our  farewell;  long  has  tolled  their  passing  bell; 
Naught  shall  answer  our  responses  to  that  slowly  dying  knell. 

"Throbs  the  tone  adown  the  hill-sides,  pulses  through  the  valleys  fair, 
Answer  back  the  streams  and  mountains,   'Lo,  no  more  we  find  them  there.' 

"Fare-ye-well,  O  guardian  watchers!  why  sit  empty  graves  beside? 
Ne'er  shall  come  the  former  spirit  to  your  shrines  re-vivified; 

"For  the  soul  ye  seek  is  risen  to  a  larger  century's  life, 

Life  of  Faith  whose  friend  is  Knowledge ;  Love  unchilled  by  Terror's  strife." 

Long  th'  adieu — the  love-sent  Pilgrims,  now  with  many  a  backward  look 
To  the  sun  and  shade-tipped  pictures  laid  in  mem'ry's  precious  book, 

Turn  unto  the  great  world  calling  with  its  bold  imperious  tone; 
Calling  to  its  work  undone  and  places  which  demand  their  own. 


122  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Turn  the  Pilgrims,  but  one  lingers — smit  with  thoughts  of  unknown  blest — 
Till  the  hours  all  softly  settle  which  have  lulled  the  earth  to  rest; 

And  behold  within  the  still  night,  when  the  Easter  moon  has  wrought 
Mystic  silhouettes  of  shadow — hieroglyphs  of  spirit  thought, 

Pass  by  in  a  grand  procession,  radiant  e'en  'gainst  silver  light, 
Forms  perceived  as  spirit  semblance  of  the  men  of  whom  we  write; 

For  Tierra  and  Ugarte,  Jesuits  from  southern  shore, 

And  Junipero,  Franciscan,  sometimes  make  this  journey  o'er, 

Drawn  from  heaven  awhile  by  love  which  still  clings  round  the  places  where 
Toiled  they  in  the  Master's  service,  in  the  Californias  fair. 

Follow  in  their  noiseless  footsteps  other  feet  as  shadowless, 
Kino  and  Crespi  with  many  toilers  in  the  wilderness ; 

Ev'ry  place  recalls  their  sorrows  where  Fate  tore  their  good  work  down; 
Here  they  met  the  pagans'  treason — there  one  took  a  martyr's  crown ; 

And  anon  the  voice  of  Serra,  as  they  pass  from  place  to  place, 
Drifts — a  chant  with  a  new  cadence,  while  new  light  illumes  his  face. 

List  the  heavenly  Pilgrims  till  they  wonder  that  their  souls  were  faint. 
That  their  footsteps  ever  faltered — that  their  lips  e'er  knew  a  plaint. 

Bids  he  them  look  down  through  ages  as  kaleidoscopic  glass, 

Till  man's  strifes  and  broken  efforts — oft  on  earth  but  shapeless  mass — 

See  they  in  God's  perfect  pattern;  e'en  dire  errors  but  the  shade 
In  designs,  His  purpose  wise,  from  our  fragmental  lives  has  made. 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE.  123 

Drifts  the  sound,  "O,  brothers  grieve  not  that  the  old  gives  place  to  new, 
That  the  present's  rushing  purpose  to  the  past  forgets  its  due; 

"God  endures  to  see  the  lily  drop  its  petals  one  by  one; 

Shall  not  we  abide  the  death  of  that  whose  work  for  earth  is  done? 

"Gone  our  Missions'  life  midst  conflicts,  but  the  truth  we  sought  to  tell, 
Shall  resist  the  strife  of  ages,  for  with  God  its  might  doth  dwell; 

"Truth  of  God's  great  love  to  mortals  shown  in  Type  of  holy  life, 
Whose  humility  majestic  should  rebuke  man's  pride  of  strife. 

"Doubt  not  that  such  love  shall  conquer  though  some  faith-built  altars  fall, 
That  the  sacrifice  was  perfect,  made  but  once  and  made  for  all; 

"By  the  holy  saints  and  martyrs  whose  great  lives  shall  burn  sublime, 
Heaven-set  torches  ever  flaming  down  the  corridors  of  time; 

"'By  His  Mother's  seven  sorrows;  by  the  twelve  stars  on  her  brow; 
By  her  present  adoration,  in  which  e'en  the  seraphs  bow; 

"By  His  holy  incarnation;  by  that  Power  which  healed  all  pain; 

By  the  Hand  that  burst  the  dark  tomb  when  came  forth  the  mighty  Slain; 

"  By  the  Real  Presence  in  the  Eucharist's  grand  mystery, 

Doubt  not  that  the  love  shall  triumph  sealed  with  blood  on  Calvary. 

"He  who  makes  man's  fury  praise  Him,  the  remainder  shall  restrain; 
On  wrath's  ruin  temple  nobler  shall  uplift  its  fair  domain; 

"Temple  where  all  hosts  shall  worship,  waiting  all  saints  gone  before, 
Militants  in  armor  when  the  last  trump  drowns  life's  battle  roar; 


124  A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

"Temple  grand  enough  to  gather  all  the  faithful  of  all  time; 
Then  shall  Jubilate  Deo  blend  in  tongues  of  every  clime. 

"If  we  know  not  such  proportions,  see  our  measuring  line  too  small; 
Be  sure  God's  love  spans  the  millions  as  His  sun  shines  over  all. 

"Then  grieve  not  at  altars  broken,  or  at  mould  on  cherished  shrine, 
God  is  greater  than  the  ages !     Truth  is  as  His  life — divine ! " 

And  the  Holy  Cross  in  blessing  lifted  o'er  their  bowe'd  heads 
Was  in  substance  as  the  lustre  which  heaven's  open  portal  sheds; 

'Neath  its  soft  suffuse'd  glory,  blent  their  outlines  with  pure  light, 
As  at  the  Transfiguration  heavenly  forms  were  lost  from  sight. 


CALIFORNIA,  loveliest  Queen  of  the  Ocean! 
^-^     Thou  Goddess  in  beauty's  immortal  array ! 
How  long  was  thy  sleep  while  Humanity's  shadows 

Through  thy  dreams,  like  the  phantoms  of  night,  went  their  way; 
How  sweet  was  the  hush  of  thy  long  sylvan  twilight, 

Ere  through  whispers  of  peace  rang  the  clash  of  the  sword ! 
How  cruel  the  shock  of  thy  sudden  awaking ! 

Ere  thy  soul  was  aroused,  wrath  around  thee  was  poured. 

But  gone  is  thy  night;  mounts  thy  day  to  its  splendor; 

And  thy  heart-pulse  is  warm,  like  the  pity  of  God ; 
Though  the  envious  hiss  with  the  curse  of  their  nature, 

For  the  grieved  of  the  world  there's  a  home  on  thy  sod. 
From  the  peaks  of  thy  mighty  Sierras  thou  cryest, 
"Here  is  bread  for  the  toiler  and  breath  for  the  free;" 


A    CALIFORNIA    PILGRIMAGE. 

Through  thy  vineyards  and  orchards  of  figs  and  the  orange, 
Thy  golden  sands  carry  the  tale  to  the  sea; 

Spread  thy  bounteous  hands  to  the  east  and  the  northward. 
Thy  smile  to  the  south  is  a  constant  delight, 

And  the  fainting — thy  skies  and  thy  soft  airs  electric 
To  new  life  on  thy  warm,  ample  bosom  invite. 

As  sing  we  the  twilight  and  shock  of  thy  waking, 
More  glad  would  we  sing  of  thy  glorious  dawn ; 

How  grand  shall  his  theme  be  who  takes  up  the  story, 
And  sings  of  the  noon  that  shall  follow  thy  morn; 

The  tale  let  him  write  with  a  pen  of  light,  tempered 
In  the  furnace  of  love,  and  bright-tipped  with  the  sun, 

For  the  home  of  God's  millions  proclaims  to  the  nations, 
"Behold  ye  the  guerdon  of  liberty,  won." 


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